of  California 
Regional 
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GAEDEK 


BLANCHE  -WILLIS  -HOWARD 


SMITH* 
ACRES  OF  BOOKS; 
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, 

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V 


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THE   GARDEN   OF   EDEN 


The  Garden  of  Eden 

BY 

BLANCHE   WILLIS    HOWARD 

AUTHOR  OF  "ONE  SUMMER,"   "  GUENN,"   "  DIONYSIUS 
THE  WEAVER'S  HEART'S  DEAREST,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1900 


Copyright,  /poo 
BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


All  rights  reserved 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS      •     JOHN    WILSON 
AND    SON     •     CAMBRIDGE,   U.S.A. 


PROLOGUE 

IN   THREE   SCENES 


2062002 


PROLOGUE 

IN   THREE   SCENES 


Place  :  A  Garden  of  Eden. 

Persons  :  Adam,  aged  eleven :  Eve,  aged  seven. 

Serpent :  deeming  his  office  a  sinecure  in  the  councils 
of  these  children,  absent. 

The  Tree  of  Knowledge :  a  small  Bartlett  pear  tree 
bearing  its  first  fruits,  three  perfect  pears,  caressed 
by  the  gardener  with  tender  thumb  and  finger 
light  as  air  and  destined  for  my  lady's  breakfast  on 
the  morrow. 

Time :  Twilight,  and  a  Sunday. 

ADAM  and  Eve,  having  seen  for  weeks  that 
the  little  tree  was  good  for  food,  and  pleasant 
to  the  eyes  and  a  tree  to  be  desired  to  make 
one  wise,  approached  and  hung  about  it 
tentatively. 

"  I  '11  just  see  if  they  are  ripe,"  quoth 
Adam. 

"  So  will  I,"  said  Eve,  his  devotee  and  echo. 

Adam  pinched  a  pear. 

Eve  did  likewise. 

Adam  squeezed  a  second  pear. 

Eve  followed  her  leader. 


4  Prologue 

Adam  seized  the  third,  and  remarked  with 
bland  surprise : 

"  Why  it 's  so  dead  ripe,  it  just  dropped  off 
of  itself." 

Eve  knew  better,  but  said  nothing. 

Adam  did  eat,  devouring  the  pear  noisily. 
It  sounded  juicy  and  luscious  in  little  Eve's 
ears. 

"  I  don't  quite  remember  whether  this  one 
was  altogether  ripe,"  pursued  the  perfidious 
Adam.  "  Bless  me,  it  has  fallen  off  too  !  " 

He  plunged  into  it  with  liquid  swoops  and 
gurgles  of  delight. 

"  How  good  that  sounds,"  sighed  Eve. 

"  Here,"  decreed  Adam  magnificently, "  you 
may  have  this  one,"  plucked  the  third  pear, 
and  Eve  did  eat. 

Hearing  the  gardener  walking  in  the  gar- 
den in  the  cool  of  the  day,  the  guilty  couple 
ran  and  hid  themselves  amongst  the  trees  of 
the  garden. 

But  the  gardener  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
perceived  that  his  pet  pears  were  gone, 
pounced  upon  Adam  and  Eve,  dragged  them 
forth  from  their  ambush  and  before  the  High 
Tribunal  of  their  aunt. 

"  How  could  you  be  so  naughty  and  steal 
those  beautiful  pears,  when  you  were  allowed 


Prologue  5 

to  eat  the  fruit  of  every  other  tree  in  the 
garden?  " 

Now  Adam  did  not  mind  such  a  little  thing 
as  a  fib.  Thrusting  his  hands  into  his  trousers 
pockets,  he  stoutly  affirmed  that  he  had  never 
so  much  as  seen  the  pears. 

The  High  Tribunal  turned  to  Eve,  who 
quaked  beneath  her  pinafore  and  gave  a  fright- 
ened sob. 

"  Child,  is  it  possible  that  it  was  you?  " 

The  doughty  Adam  expected  Eve  to  fib 
easily  in  his  footsteps  and  was  cogitating 
whether  he  should  now  inculpate  the  robins, 
or  a  neighbor's  boy  against  whom  he  had  a 
grudge. 

But,  remarking  her  pitiful  plight,  and  being 
a  much  better  fellow  than  the  reputed  father 
of  the  race,  hence  incapable  of  meanly  shuf- 
fling off  blame  upon  a  dear  companion,  and  of 
desiring  her  to  be  punished  with  him,  he  sud- 
denly cried  with  a  swagger  : 

"  I  say,  I  lied  you  know.  I  ate  your  old 
pears,  all  three  of  them  —  skins,  seeds,  and 
stems." 

The  High  Tribunal  was  very  wroth  with 
Adam  and  commanded  he  should  be  driven 
out  of  that  delightful  garden  and  enjoy  no 
more  the  fruits  thereof;  and  the  grim  gar- 


6  Prologue 

dener  was  enjoined,  henceforth  like  cherubim 
and  a  flaming  sword  turning  every  way,  to 
guard  fair  Eden. 

With  a  terrible  countenance  the  reprobate 
Adam  strode  forth  from  the  judgment-cham- 
ber, and  wretched  Eve,  faithful  as  his  shadow, 
trotted  after  him.  But  Adam  was  a  person 
of  resources. 

"  Cheer  up,  Chubby,"  he  presently  mut- 
tered, "you  are  all  right,  you  know.  Don't 
worry.  Trust  me  to  nab  all  the  fruit  I  want." 
Here  he  put  his  thumb  upon  his  nose  and 
executed  an  antediluvian  gesture.  "  Now 
come  along,  and  see  me  drive  spikes  into  her 
new  gate." 

But  Eve  took  no  pleasure  in  those  nails  ot 
retribution.  Adam's  more  athletic  conscience 
skipped  handsomely  over  the  pear  tree,  hers 
was  heavy  and  sore.  In  her  own  way,  with- 
out dictionary-words,  she  knew  that  they  had 
wantonly  seized  and  devoured  the  property  of 
others.  Moreover,  she  had  seen  her  affable 
seniors  grouped  around  that  tree  while  the 
old  gardener  smirked  in  his  beard.  She  was 
vaguely  aware  those  pears  were  precious 
things,  possessed  of  ideal  worth  —  that  a  trust 
had  been  betrayed,  a  hope  destroyed.  She 
was  ashamed  that  she  had  remained  meanly 


Prologue  7 

silent.  Had  the  High  Tribunal  been  alone, 
Eve  would  have  confessed  her  pear,  but  the 
many  eyes  of  aunts  confused  her,  and  while 
she  hesitated,  Adam  assumed  the  entire  felony 
and  sealed  her  lips. 

In  short,  little  Eve  —  let  theologians  and 
philosophers  explain  why  —  writhed  under  the 
ugly  weight  of  sin,  felt  acute  attacks  of  self- 
reproach  and  long  enduring  discomfort.  For 
years  she  could  not  pass  that  tree  without  a 
pang.  Like  ever-accusing  fingers  its  twigs 
pointed  at  her.  The  largely  hospitable  and 
betrayed  aunt  seemed  no  longer  as  other 
aunts.  In  her  presence  Eve  was  ill  at  ease. 
When  pears  confronted  her  at  dessert,  she 
stared  guiltily  at  her  plate.  Sweet  had  been 
the  forbidden  fruit,  bitter  the  after  taste. 

Thus  the  child  Eve  ate  of  the  Tree  of  the 
Knowledge  of  Good  and  Evil.  But  that 
scapegrace,  Brother  Adam,  because  he  had 
the  manliness  to  protect  her,  was  henceforth, 
in  her  eyes,  even  more  great  and  glorious. 


Prologue    . 


II 


A  BISHOP  in  his  robes  stood  catechizing  a 
hundred  children  in  a  vestry.  He  was  a  stal- 
wart man  of  ruddy  countenance  and  unascetic 
lips,  but  a  child  in  one  of  the  younger  classes 
watched  him  with  unswerving  gaze,  for  this 
was  the  Anointed  of  the  Lord,  and  could  do 
no  wrong  thing.  Noting  her  eager  eyes,  he 
turned  to  her  with  a  question  which  she 
answered.  Because  she  was  little  and  seemed 
alert  and  older  children  had  mumbled,  it 
pleased  the  great  man  to  continue  to  question 
her  and  to  lead  her  gradually  into  ecclesiastical 
fields  beyond  the  limits  assigned  to  those  of 
her  tender  years.  But  being  a  child  of  facile 
memory,  and  rather  liking  the  sound  of  long 
words  she  did  not  understand,  and  having 
heard  reluctant  brothers  and  cousins  droning 
their  catechism  and  older  classes  declaiming 
it  in  unison,  it  happened  that  she  knew  it  all. 

Her  heart  beating  high,  her  dilated  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  Anointed  of  the  Lord,  her  voice 
clear  and  confident,  she  rattled  off  bravely 
that  portion  of  the  twentieth  chapter  of  Ex- 


Prologue  9 

odus  which  exemplary  persons  consider  in- 
dispensable milk  for  babes.  This  is  because 
the  Church  had  Fathers  only —  many  of  them, 
alas  !  old  bachelors  :  the  Church  of  the  Future 
will  have  Mothers  also,  therefore  more  mercy 
and  comprehension  for  its  little  ones. 

She  never  stumbled  on  that  long,  rocky  way 
from  the  house  of  bondage,  down  past  the 
graven  images,  the  jealous  God,  iniquity, 
adultery,  and  false  witness,  and  arrived  safely 
at  her  neighbor's  ass.  For  the  most  part  this 
austere  wisdom  was  a  sort  of  holy  gibberish 
to  the  little  maid,  and  the  meaning  of  the  few 
injunctions  which  her  mind  faintly  grasped,  she 
learned  better  and  more  sweetly  at  her  mother's 
knee,  without  the  intervention  of  Moses. 

After  the  Commandments,  she  blithely 
chirped  those  trifles,  her  Duty  toward  God 
and  her  Duty  toward  her  Neighbor,  and 
finally  piped  with  somewhat  the  comprehen- 
sion of  a  canary  bird,  that  she  was  born  in  sin 
and  the  child  of  wrath,  and  the  many  great 
words  about  the  mystery  of  the  Sacraments. 
For  this  mere  trick  of  memory  she  received 
the  public  commendation  of  the  Bishop,  as 
if  she  had  done  some  saintly  deed. 

Glowing  with  success  and  excitement,  for 
there  had  been  a  certain  risk  in  her  prowess, 


io  Prologue 

still  more,  strangely  exalted  because  it  was 
the  Anointed  of  the  Lord  who  had  praised 
her,  she  passed  out  of  the  Church  with  her 
mates,  and  was  as  sure  of  their  delight  as  of 
her  own.  But  the  little  girls  were  silent. 

"  She  is  proud  because  she  knows  the  second 
half,  and  we  don't.  Let  us  not  walk  with  her." 
The  entire  flock  flew  across  the  street. 

Turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left, 
with  head  erect,  flushed  cheeks,  and  quivering 
lips, — bewildered,  cut  to  the  heart,  her  tri- 
umph and  the  Lord's  Anointed  already  for- 
gotten, the  child  walked  on,  beneath  the  shady 
maple  trees  of  that  quiet  neighborhood,  and 
heard  the  ostentatious  mirth  of  the  group  ad- 
vancing parallel  with  her,  step  for  step,  yet 
with  more  between  her  and  them  than  the 
breadth  of  a  summer  street. 

For,  alienating  those  tender  souls,  in  embryo 
was  a  troop  of  the  ugliest  phantoms  that  haunt 
mankind  —  envy,  cruelty,  discord,  ostracism, 
the  perfidy  of  friends,  the  fickleness  of  mobs 
—  and  their  chill  lovelessness  the  child  felt 
with  tumultuous,  uncomprehended  pain.  And 
all  else  she  could  have  borne,  but  while  she 
walked  in  bitterness  alone,  her  dearest  walked 
with  the  others. 

Thus  the  child  knew  loneliness. 


Prologue  1 1 


III 


A  LITTLE  girl  used  to  slip  away  from  her 
mates  at  the  portals  of  a  small  Gothic  church 
on  Sunday  noons,  steal  up  alone  to  an  empty 
gallery,  hide  with  beating  heart  behind  a  stone 
pillar  and  wait,  in  strange  suspense,  while  the 
kneeling  grown  people  down  below  proceeded 
with  their  mumblings  and  genuflections,  which 
interested  her  little,  until  she  heard  bursting 
forth  gloriously: 

Therefore  with  Angels  and  Archangels  and 
all  the  company  of  Heaven  we  land  and  mag- 
nify Thy  glorious  Name;  evermore  praising 
Thee  and  saying,  Holy,  holy,  holy  Lord  God  of 
hosts,  Heaven  and  earth  —  when  the  child  be- 
hind the  granite  pillar  would  tremble,  hold  her 
breath,  close  her  eyes,  and  feel  her  heart  swell 
marvellously.  She  saw  them  all  —  the  shin- 
ing throng  of  angels  and  archangels  sweeping 
along  on  white,  slow  wings  and  chanting  their 
mystical  "  Holy,  Holy,  Holy"  until  the  voices 
below  ceased  suddenly  with  "  Most  High" 
which  always  recalled  her  to  earth  with  a 
shock. 


1 2  Prologue 

Haunted  by  no  seraphic  visions,  not  spirit- 
ual, not  dreamy,  she  would  run  home  to 
her  robust,  boyish  sports,  her  tempers  and 
tyrannies,  her  story-books,  unripe  fruit  and 
dogs.  Yet  never,  if  she  could  help  it,  did  she 
miss  floating  with  her  angels  and  archangels. 
She  always  went  alone  to  keep  her  tryst 
with  them,  and  spoke  of  it  to  no  one.  Often 
she  wondered  anxiously  if  it  were  going  to  be 
the  same.  It  always  was  the  same.  Always 
with  those  noble  opening  words  came  the 
little  chill  down  her  back,  the  slight  choking 
in  the  throat,  like  tears ;  and  at  the  Tresagion, 
the  languor,  the  buoyancy,  the  spiritual  de- 
tachment, the  sense  of  rapturous  flight,  the 
whole  rush  of  complex  emotion  for  which  she 
had  no  comprehension  and  no  name  —  but 
which,  whether  a  mysterious  after-glow  from 
some  previous  stage  of  being,  or  the  equally 
mysterious  prescience  of  a  distant  dawn,  was 
an  ecstasy  of  adoration  almost  too  mighty  for 
the  heart  of  a  child. 


The  Garden  of  Eden 


i 

THE  hospitable  old  house  on  the  height 
above  the  bay  no  longer  blazed  abroad  from 
a  phalanx  of  shining  windows  its  signals  of 
good  cheer.  All  within  was  dim  and  hushed. 
Something  gracious,  warm,  and  infinitely  kind 
had  fled  from  it  forever.  In  an  upper  room 
a  frail  old  man  kept  watch  by  a  rigid  shape, 
and  stared  before  him  with  unfaltering  eyes 
—  keen  still  and  marvellously  luminous  in  the 
wizened  face  —  while  his  stout  heart  went 
brooding  down  the  seventy  years  of  his 
pilgrimage. 

Without,  the  night  was  wet  with  dripping 
autumn  mists  and  heavy  with  fumes  of  de- 
caying leaves.  Sad  shapes  of  denuded  elms 
haunted  the  long  paths,  and  the  rose  garden 
was  black  and  gloomy  as  the  grave. 

Stealthily,  although  on  that  dense,  moist 
carpet  of  leaves,  no  footfall  could  sound  — 
swiftly,  ever  swifter,  with  eager  heart,  a  girl 


14  The  Garden  of  Eden 

came  on  from  the  direction  of  the  house,  ran 
across  lawns,  down  avenue,  alley,  and  by-path, 
vanished  like  a  shade  in  the  depths  of  the  dead 
rose  garden,  reached  the  threshold  of  a  roomy 
arbor,  and  stopped  short.  Parting  with  both 
hands  its  trailing  veil  of  vine-stems,  she  stood 
peering  into  the  chilly  blackness. 
"Dear?"  she  whispered,  "Dear?" 
Nothing  responded  save  a  shivering  along 
the  vines,  stirred  to  brief  life  by  a  stray  salt 
whiff  from  the  bay.  Yet  whether  uncon- 
sciously guided  by  one  ill-repressed  ardent 
breath,  or  by  the  faint  aroma  of  cigarette- 
smoke,  or  by  the  subtle  divination  love  lends 
the  dullest,  it  was  but  an  imperceptible  instant 
before  she  sprang  across  the  intervening  dis- 
tance, and  with  a  tremulous  sigh  of  relief,  of 
attainment,  of  exceeding  peace  —  found  what 
she  sought. 

All  else  receded:  disquieting  problems, 
excess  of  work  and  care,  burdens  of  anxiety, 
of  pain  and  pity  —  the  whole  prolonged  strain 
of  months  —  even  the  solemn  dominance  of 
that  still  presence  in  "  the  chamber  over  the 
gate  "  sank  from  her  like  a  garment,  and  her 
spirit,  light,  free,  rapturous,  seemed  con- 
sciously to  rise  and  to  soar  in  illimitable 
space. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  1 5 

But  the  man  who  loved  her  well,  did  not  at 
the  moment  float.  He  kept  his  feet  well 
planted  on  the  earth,  remembered  for  her 
dear  sake  what  she  innocently  forgot,  and 
much  as  yet  unknown  to  her  —  while  all  was 
still  in  the  arbor  save  for  the  shivering  along 
the  vines. 

When  he,  at  length,  spoke,  she  gave  a  little 
start  —  as  if  the  congregation  had  reached 
"Most  High." 

"  Did  no  one  see  you  come?  "  he  demanded 
brusquely. 

"  No  —  "  she  murmured,  her  voice  languid 
and  remote. 

"  Are  you  sure?" 

"  Quite,"  she  returned,  still  absently,  then 
with  concern :  "  How  cold  you  are,  how  very, 
very  cold  !  Your  hair,  your  cheek,  your  coat, 
all  of  you  !  " 

"Will  they  not  miss  you?"  he  persisted 
nervously.  "  Are  you  sure  no  one  saw  or 
heard  you  leave  the  house?  Did  you  shut 
the  library  door?  Where  do  they  think  you 
are?" 

"  They  think  I  am  resting  —  which  I  am  — 
in  my  room  —  where,  happily,  I  am  not.  I 
closed  the  door;  no  one  saw  or  heard  me. 
Why  are  you  so  anxious,  dearest?  " 


1 6  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  You  ought  to  know  why  I  am  anxious," 
he  returned  curtly.  In  the  stillness  and  the 
dusk  he  suddenly  drew  her  closer  as  if  he  fain 
would  ward  off  impending  evil. 

"Have  you  been  waiting  long?"  she  said 
softly,  after  a  while.  "Why  did  you  not 
speak?  How  could  you  want  me  to  lose  time 
groping  in  the  dark?  " 

"  Groping !  "  he  muttered. 

She  laughed  low,  in  quick  response,  but 
broke  off  instantly.  "  I  wonder  that  I  can 
laugh  the  least  fragment  of  a  laugh  —  ever 
again  !  "  she  sighed. 

"  '  Ever  again  '  is  rather  a  large  order,  is  it 
not?"  he  said  indulgently  with  an  undertone 
of  sadness.  "  If  only  the  people  with  no 
heartaches  in  this  best  of  all  worlds  should 
laugh !  " 

"  But  I  am  asking  myself  in  these  last  days 
if  I  am  not  perhaps  really  heartless." 

"  You  ?  Very !  "  he  retorted  with  a  short 
laugh. 

"  Because  nothing  is  as  I  expected  it  would 
be.  I  do  not  feel  in  the  least  as  people  expect 
me  to  feel  or  as  I  expected  to  feel  myself!  " 

"  Child !  Who  ever  yet  felt  as  he  expected 
to  feel !  " 

"  But  indeed  I  'm  afraid  there  is  something 


The  Garden  of  Eden  17 

abnormal  in  me.  I  cannot  mourn  right.  The 
house  seems  unreal,  like  a  stage,  and  I  not 
particularly  interested  in  the  play.  It  is  not 
merely  that  I  am  cold.  I  often  have  no  feel- 
ing at  all.  Even  my  own  voice  sounds  far 
away  and  hollow,  and  I  walk  about  like  a 
graven  image." 

"  Over-excitement  Fatigue.  Strained 
nerves.  Want  of  sleep,"  he  returned  with 
professional  curtness. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  said  wearily.  "I  began 
to  fear  I  was  a  monster." 

"  Have  you  any  other  crimes  to  confess  ?  " 
he  asked,  in  tender  irony.  "  If  there 's  a  shoot- 
ing-fray in  Texas,  a  train  robbed  in  Dakota, 
an  outbreak  of  Popocatapetl,  or  something 
rotten  in  the  state  of  Denmark,  you  are 
usually  I  believe  the  guilty  party."  He 
meant  her  to  smile  but  heard  her  sigh.  As 
she  remained  silent  in  her  soft  nearness,  he 
went  on  with  his  benevolent  derision,  a  safe- 
guard he  deemed  for  her  and  for  himself. 
"  When  a  New  England  woman  starts  to  go 
upstairs,  she  always  asks  herself  whether  it 
is  her  duty  to  begin  with  the  right  or  the 
left  foot,  and  what  relation  her  step  bears  to 
the  great  laws  of  the  universe?  Terrible 
little  Scholastics  you  all  are ! " 


1 8  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  Must  she  have  suffered  so  long?  Were 
we  not  cruel?" 

"  Why  torment  yourself  so  ?  " 

"  But  Lilian  herself  was  gone  weeks  ago. 
Was  it  right  to  let  Pater  watch  his  best  be- 
loved merge  into  —  that,  before  his  eyes? 
Into  something  hardly  human,  yet  dying 
slowly  in  unutterable  pain?  Oh,  Keith,  if 
you  could  have  helped  her !  " 

"  Ah,"  he  replied  gravely,  "  we  doctors  are 
not  so  far  along  as  that.  It  is  our  duty  to 
seek  to  preserve  life  —  at  any  cost." 

"  Oh,  it  has  been  unspeakable  agony  to  see 
that  pure  spirit  vanish  —  slowly  —  gruesomely 
—  instead  of  adjusting  the  morphine  so  finely 
that  she  was  sure  to  awaken  to  renewed  tor- 
ment, how  often  I  longed  to  lovingly  adminis- 
ter release !  But  though  Lilian  was  gone, 
something  of  her  remained :  the  silky  hair, 
the  large  eloquent  hands.  It  was  too  much 
for  my  strength.  I  had  not  the  courage.  Yet 
often  I  have  thought  some  one  ought  to  do  it, 
for  Lilian's  sake,  for  Pater's  sake  :  ought  to 
have  the  courage  and  the  right,  after  the  soul 
is  fled,  to  stop  the  poor  wretched  machine, 
that  exists  only  to  suffer  and  cause  suffering." 

He  soothed  her  with  tender  voice,  arms,  and 
caress. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  19 

"Why  think,  why  speak  of  it?  Why  excite 
yourself  so?  Some  day  we  will  discuss  that 
question.  Not  to-night." 

"  Then  she  died,"  pursued  Monica,  "  and  1 
was  quite  calm.  I  watched  her  agony  so 
often  and  so  long,  the  mere  passing  away 
seemed  very  simple.  I  closed  her  eyes  and 
was  thankful  I  need  never  again  torture  her 
with  that  horrible  morphine  needle  or  with 
loathsome  drugs,  never  again  molest  her  in  any 
way.  And  when  I  look  at  her,  I  do  not  grieve. 
Is  that  natural?  Is  it  not  —  inhuman? " 

He  had  watched  her  sharing  her  friend's 
burdens,  bearing  her  friend's  cross,  taking  her 
friend  in  loving  arms  and  with  unfaltering 
courage  and  service,  descending,  so  far  as 
lies  in  human  power,  every  step  of  that  long 
and  ghastly  journey  into  the  silence  that  meant 
release.  Now  he  heard  her  arraign  herself 
for  some  imaginary  flaw  in  her  nature,  some 
involuntary  deviation  from  her  traditions,  while 
she  leaned  in  blessed  serenity  on  his  breast 
and  felt  by  night  the  arms  enfold  her  which 
could  never  openly  protect  her  by  day.  Her 
vast  unconsciousness, — which,  according  to  his 
mood,  touched  him  as  something  puerile  but 
dear,  thrilled  him  with  mighty  exultation, 
turned  him  sick  with  self-reproach  and  forebod- 


2O  The  Garden  of  Eden 

ing,  could  indeed  even  irritate  him  with  its 
placid  remoteness, —  had  never  seemed  to  him 
more  amazingly  incomprehensible  than  at  this 
moment.  With  a  bitter  sense  of  the  incon- 
gruity of  the  situation,  of  her  sweet  unreason- 
ableness, the  utter  futility  of  his  great  love, 
of  the  deadly  irony  of  life,  he  broke  out 
bitterly : 

"  Would  to  God  you  were  heartless  and 
knew  your  own  worth,  and  could  haggle  and 
barter  and  sell  yourself  handsomely  as  pru- 
dent women  do,  instead  of  being  so  mad  as 
to  —  " 

"  Keith,  dear  Keith !  " 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said  moodily,  "  tragics 
are  useless  and  out  of  date.  But  there  is 
something  I  Ve  resolved  to  tell  this  night  — 
quietly  —  quietly.  Wait.  There  used  to  be 
some  chairs  in  this  place.  I  '11  prowl  about  a 
bit.  Here 's  a  stack  of  spades  —  sharper  than 
a  serpent's  tooth.  Don't  stumble  over  them." 

He  tramped  about  with  rather  marked  de- 
liberation and  announced  from  the  other  side 
of  the  arbor : 

"The  tide  is  coming  in:  just  approaching 
the  bridge  I  should  say.  Do  you  know,  I 
don't  mind  the  smell  of  the  mud  flats  when 
there  's  a  wind  from  the  bay  and  an  incoming 


The  Garden  of  Eden  2 1 

tide.  But  on  an  August  noon  and  the  tide 
well  out  and  no  breeze  stirring,  the  stench  of 
of  those  flats  is  an  abomination." 

"  Yes,  dear.  What  is  it  that  you  must  tell 
me,  quietly!5  " 

"  That  you  are  to  put  yourself  in  this  camp- 
chair —  so  —  and  your  feet  upon  this  box — so 
—  and  be  covered  up  —  so  —  like  a  mummy." 

"  Ah,  Keith,  not  with  your  coat !  " 

"I'm  all  right.  I'm  going  to  move  about 
a  little.  Besides  I  Ve  not  been  up  an  incred- 
ible number  of  nights  working  and  enduring 
beyond  belief.  Do  you  know,  any  woman 
with  an  atom  of  self-respect  would  take  to  her 
bed  with  a  good  orthodox  rheumatism  or  a 
decent  sort  of  fever  —  instead  of  frequenting 
damp  arbors  and  disreputable  society." 

Docile  to  his  wish,  she  closed  her  eyes,  lay 
still,  let  him  cover  her  feet  and  do  what  he 
would.  Nor  did  she  wonder  at  his  irrelevant 
chatter,  his  sudden  restlessness.  It  was  fre- 
quently a  way  of  his,  and  all  his  ways  were 
dear.  When  his  rich  voice  with  its  ironical 
indulgence,  its  suggestion  of  illimitable  worldly 
experience,  its  strong  beat  of  repressed  emo- 
tion, deigned  to  talk  arrant  nonsense  he 
charmed  her  senses  and  possessed  her  heart. 

Folding    his    arms    obstinately   across    his 


22  The  Garden  of  Eden 

breast,  he  leaned  against  the  doorpost  and 
asked:  "  How  is  Judge  Trevor?  " 

"  Perfectly  calm.  Exactly  as  I  remember 
him  all  my  life  —  except,  perhaps,  a  trifle 
paler,  sharper,  more  shrunken,  more  sardonic, 
more  thoroughly  Voltaire's  twin  brother: 
everything  in  him  suddenly  accentuated  — 
yet  if  it  is  possible  to  conceive  it,  even  more 
ceremonious,  more  courteous,  more  gentle 
and  thoughtful  of  everybody,  more  utterly 
touching." 

"  Fine  old  fellow.     Game." 

"  Yes.  Chevaleresque  to  the  last.  Like  some 
old  marquis  in  St.  Lazare  among  those  splen- 
did souls  who  knew  so  well  how  to  die  — 
Lilian  too  was  like  them  —  " 

"  Do  you  still  give  him  the  electricity  every 
day?" 

"  Twice  a  day." 

"  It  can  do  that  withered  arm  no  earthly 
good." 

"  No,  dear,  but  he  thinks  it  may." 

"  He  pretends  to  think  so,  but  he  is  over 
seventy  years  old,  and  supernaturally  shrewd. 
He  has  no  illusions." 

"  It  diverts  him  at  least.  When  the  appara- 
tus begins  to  sing,  and  I  roll  up  his  sleeve  on 
that  poor  little  bone,  and  look  as  wise  as  an 


The  Garden  of  Eden  23 

owl,  —  professionally  solemn  —  a  trick  I  've 
caught  from  you,  dear !  —  he  is  always  cheerful, 
and  it  occupies  him  two  whole  hours  every  one 
of  his  sad  long  days." 

He  made  a  sudden  dive  toward  her,  nearly 
reached  her  with  outstretched  arms  in  the 
dark,  checked  himself  and  continued  his 
measured  tread. 

"  Do  you  know,  you  are  an  uncommonly 
good  little  girl?  I  may  have  forgotten  to 
mention  it.  And  what  are  our  esteemed  rela- 
tives doing  meanwhile?" 

"  Dividing,"  she  answered  gently,  "  always 
dividing.  Making  inventories.  Ransacking. 
Feeling  silk  between  thumb  and  finger.  Hold- 
ing lace  well  up  to  the  light." 

"  Vulturesque !  " 

"  This  morning  as  I  was  doing  Pater's  arm, 
was  absorbed  in  my  work  and  everything  was 
quite  still  except  for  the  buzz  of  the  machine, 
he  suddenly  gleamed  at  me  with  that  most 
wicked  little  smile  of  his  and  asked,  in  a  sort 
of  stage  whisper : 

'"Have  they  got  to  the  ragbag  yet?'  It 
really  startled  me,  as  he  never  appears  to  notice 
anything,  but  I  was  relieved  to  see  the  wicked 
little  smile  again,  it  looked  so  familiar  and 
dear." 


24  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Keith  continued  his  obtrusive  calm  pacing, 
whistling  a  street  melody  between  his  teeth, 
and  the  pause  grew  long  before  she  demanded 
suddenly: 

"  Why  were  you  silent  when  I  came  to- 
night? Did  you  want  me  to  go  away?  And 
what  do  you  want  to  tell  me  —  quietly?  For 
I  feel  it  between  us  —  whatever  we  try  to 
say." 

In  an  instant  he  was  near  her. 

"  Why  did  you  not  speak?  "  she  whispered, 
clinging  close. 

"  Because,  if  you  must  know,  I  was  afraid," 
he  said,  huskily.  "  I  heard  you,  saw  you, 
every  step  as  if  it  were  noonday,  coming 
toward  me  in  the  night.  It  is  glorious  the  way 
you  come,  but  it  is  sheer  madness.  I  was 
afraid  of  you  —  afraid  for  you.  —  God  knows 
I  am  afraid  unceasingly  "  —  and  he  bowed  his 
head  over  her. 

"  But  when  I  assure  you  we  are  as  safe  as  if 
this  were  a  desert  island  —  " 

He  laughed  sadly. 

"  My  poor  little  deluded  girl." 

"  Even  if  a  servant  should  happen  to  see  me 
go  in,  I  should  not  mind  at  all." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  would  not  mind." 

"  I  simply  should  have  been  taking  the  air 


The  Garden  of  Eden  25 

in  the  garden  and  that  I  have  done  at  any  hour 
I  chose  all  the  year." 

"You  simply  would  have  been  taking  the 
midnight  air,"  he  repeated  gravely. 

"  When  Lilian's  bell  used  to  ring  out  so 
late,  they  could  hardly  have  thought  me 
alone?" 

"There  was  no  secrecy  about  it?" 

"  None  whatever.  After  all,"  she  said,  rather 
haughtily,  "  Judge  Trevor  and  mamma  are  the 
only  persons  to  whom  I  owe  any  explanation 
of  my  conduct.  All  that  I  do  I  tell  her,  and  he 
would  not  object;  in  fact  he  probably  suspects 
at  this  moment  that  I  am  with  you." 

He  laughed  again  incredulously,  hopelessly. 
"  Because  you  wind  them  all  round  your  fin- 
gers, toss  their  principles  and  traditions  to  the 
winds,  and  sweetly  persuade  them  black  is 
white,  does  that  alter  facts?  You  are  danger- 
ous, my  Monica !  In  the  first  place,  all  your 
geese  are  swans.  I  never  met  a  woman  whose 
geese  were  such  transcendental  fowls  of  purest 
Lohengrin  breed.  Then  your  convictions  are 
so  strong,  your  faith  is  so  ardent — the  verit- 
able faith  that  moves  mountains  —  to  my 
knowledge,  you  have  set  several  big  mountains 
nodding  and  swaying,  not  to  speak  of  all  the 
little  hills  that  are  continually  hopping  and 


26  The  Garden  of  Eden 

skipping  and  dancing  jigs  to  your  pipe.  You 
fairly  hypnotize  us.  It  is  incredible.  You 
completely  won  that  good  woman  — your  poor 
friend  up  there  —  and  she  was  not  revolution- 
ary like  you,  my  dear  —  " 

"  Lilian  understood  you,  Keith,"  murmured 
the  girl. 

"  And  Judge  Trevor,  most  punctilious  of 
men  —  until,  if  they  did  not  actually  connive  at 
our  meetings,  at  least  they  tacitly  permitted 
them." 

"  I  merely  told  them  the  truth.  I  could  do 
no  less.  They  were  my  best  friends.  I  was 
under  their  roof.  But  I  said  exceedingly  little. 
They  saw  for  themselves  what  you  were." 

"And  your  mother.  She  is  infinitely  dis- 
tressed, poor  soul,  always  in  purgatory,  —  yet 
there  are  moments  when  you  half-hypnotize 
even  her." 

"  She  cannot  help  loving  you,"  exclaimed 
the  girl. 

"  And  demure  Cousin  Ruth,  horrified  at  any 
irregularity  in  manners  or  morals,  what  did 
you  do  to  her  that  she  walked  three  miles  with 
you  and  waited  patiently  that  we  might  have  a 
couple  of  hours  together  undisturbed?" 

"  How  wonderful  it  was  that  day ! "  she 
sighed  wistfully.  "  The  rocks,  the  surf,  the 


The  Garden  of  Eden  27 

dipping  white  sails,  the  sea  gulls  whirling,  and 
we  two  quite  alone !  " 

For  a  moment  he  could  not  speak.  She 
was  sometimes  disheartening. 

He  kissed  her  hands  slowly  and  resumed  : 
"  And  the  old  Trevor  servants.  They  would 
bite  out  their  tongues  or  steal  for  you.  The 
dogs  —  the  dogs  adore  you.  They  obey  your 
very  whisper  —  which  is  uncommonly  lucky  for 
you  and  me,"  he  added  grimly.  "  And  I  —  I," 
he  laughed  bitterly,  "  I  the  great  Lohengrin 
swan  !  Almost  you  persuade  me  I  am  a  right 
sort  of  lover  for  you.  Sometimes,  indeed,  I  am 
led  to  believe  we  wear  guileless  coral  beads 
and  white  smocks,  and  are  making  daisy 
chains  in  the  meadow." 

"Are  you  blaming  me,  Keith?"  she  asked, 
perplexed. 

"God  forbid!  For  what,  then,  Monica? 
For  being  your  own  fine,  fearless  self  ?  For 
thinking  no  evil?  For  loving  purely  and  not 
counting  costs?  For  being  magnanimous  to  a 
poor  beggar?  For — "  he  pulled  himself  up 
sharply  and  veered  off  into  the  first  byway 
that  presented  itself:  "  Such  a  clever  little  girl 
too  !  Writes  books  —  " 

"Not  books.  A  book.  Hardly  large  enough 
to  toddle  alone.  Besides,  you  do  not  like  it" 


28  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  No,"  he  admitted  reluctantly,  "  I  don't" 

"Why  do  you  not  like  it,  Keith?  You  have 
never  told  me,  you  know.  I  rather  wish  you 
could  like  it,  of  course.  Still  I  really  do  not 
mind  much." 

He  hesitated. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  because  I  in  general  don't 
like  your  merry  art ;  what  they  call  humor  and 
all  that." 

"  It  is  light  —  as  thistle-down,"  she  re- 
turned simply.  "  But  it  has  a  merry  way  of 
selling,  as  I  hear  to-day  from  my  publishers. 
I  hope  you  do  not  scorn  that." 

"  By  no  means.  I  like  Mammon  uncom- 
monly well." 

"  You  know  I  have  hardly  thought  of  it. 
I  have  had  better  and  sadder  things  to  think 
of  than  that  idle  little  tale.  But  it  is  strange 
that  it  should  be  liked  for  its  lightness,  while 
all  this  is  happening  to  us;  Lilian  dying  by 
inches,  and  you  and  I  —  " 

"  Toying  with  thunderbolts  !  Oh,  Monica, 
let  us  not  talk  of  dipping  white  sails  or  little 
popular  books.  Lie  still,  dear,  and  let  me 
say  what  is  on  my  heart.  Every  time  I  ap- 
proach it,  I  turn  and  run.  But  speak  I  must  — 
You  —  you  — "  he  went  on,  "you  see  it  all 
in  a  great  glory.  It  is  all  ideal  to  you,  poor 


The  Garden  of  Eden  29 

little  girl.  But  I  cannot  pretend  unconscious- 
ness. My  soul  is  not  a  blank  white  page  like 
yours,  and  it  is  downhill  we  are  going — straight 
to  perdition." 

"  If  it  is  as  bad  as  that,"  she  replied,  in  a 
clear  voice  and  springing  up  quickly,  "  let  us 
sit  here  quietly  on  this  bench,  side  by  side,  and 
see  what  is  to  be  done.  Tell  me  what  you 
mean,  Keith.  Why  are  we  going  to  perdition? 
I  don't  believe  you.  We  love  each  other, 
surely  there  must  be  help." 

"  Because  we  love  each  other  there  is  no 
help,"  he  answered  with  a  kind  of  sternness. 
"  Because  it  grows  harder  for  me  each  day  — 
how  hard,  how  immeasurably  beyond  my 
strength  you  will  never  comprehend.  At 
first  I  too  was  in  a  fool's  paradise.  But  it 
is  two  years  now  —  two  years.  It  is  so  natural, 
you  say,  in  your  delicious  but  most  imperfect 
wisdom.  So  perilously  natural,  my  Monica, 
for  us  to  be  together.  You  are  all  I  want  in 
this  or  any  other  world.  In  all  I  have  sought, 
all  I  have  seemed  to  love  since  the  boy's  heart 
in  me  first  stirred  and  waked  and  longed  for 
something  higher  and  better  than  itself,  I  was 
seeking  and  loving  only  you.  I  was  born  to 
love  you.  When  I  found  you  I  knew  that 
I  had  always  loved  you.  You  were  waiting 


30  The  Garden  of  Eden 

for  me,  dear  —  and  I  —  fool  —  I  had  not 
waited." 

"  Keith,"  she  pleaded,  but  he  went  on  in 
stern  self-reproach : 

"  That  was  a  crime,  but  not  my  worst  against 
you.  I  need  not  have  let  you  love  me." 

"  Ah,  that  you  could  not  help  ! " 

"  I  ought  to  have  slunk  out  of  your  path. 
I  need  not  have  yielded  to  my  longing  to  be 
near  you,  need  not  have  let  the  fine  meshes 
close  round  us  closer,  finer,  every  hour.  I 
ought  to  have  loved  you  from  afar,  as  I  did, 
indeed,  a  whole  year,  before  I  met  you  face 
to  face.  I  might  have  met  you  any  day,  and 
I  never  took  one  step  toward  knowing  you. 
That  is  the  one  straight  thing  I  have  done. 
I  knew  it  must  come  as  it  has  come,  if  we  two 
should  meet.  And  I  avoided  you.  I  was 
afraid,  even  then.  I  hid  in  doorways  and 
round  corners  and  held  my  breath  and  watched 
you  go  by  —  away  from  me  —  always  away 
from  me !  Once  in  the  twilight  you  came 
along  swiftly  with  an  armful  of  tall  lilies  and 
behind  you  was  a  dull  gold  sky.  You  '11  never 
know  how  you  looked,  never !  I  followed  you 
like  a  thief —  like  the  thief  that  I  am !  " 

"  Dearest,  if  you  would  not  be  so  wretched  ! 
You  are  good  and  you  are  strong.  We  have 


The  Garden  of  Eden  3 1 

done  nothing  wrong.  I  have  met  you  when 
and  where  I  could.  If  there  be  wrong  in  our 
meeting  I  am  as  much  to  blame  as  you.  But 
I  will  not  have  you  so  miserable  on  my  account 

—  I  will  not.     I  am  trying  to  think.     Go  on." 
"  Can  you  not  understand?  "  he  said  with  a 

strange  sort  of  irritation ;  "  it  is  the  harm 
overshadowing  your  white  life  that  makes  me 
miserable  —  the  transparent  life  that  all  the 
world  might  know  until  I  came." 

"  It  is  a  better  and  larger  life  through  you, 
and  so  far  as  I  alone  am  concerned  the  whole 
world  may  know  it  still." 

"  Oh,  my  great-hearted,  foolish,  foolish 
Monica.  You  make  it  terribly  hard  for  me 
to  save  you  !  "  he  muttered.  "  But  surely  you 
realize  the  world  would  cast  you  out  for  this 
one  clandestine  rendezvous." 

"Then  the  world  is  wrong,  not  we,"  she 
declared  serenely.  "  It  cannot  be  a  sin  to 
love  what  is  lovable  wherever  one  finds  it. 
Clandestine?  It  is  not  a  nice  word.  But 
words  are  not  very  important,  are  they?  I 
do  not  feel  clandestine.  Only  alone  with  you 

—  my  other  self —  in  the  open  air  where  I  'd 
always  rather  be  than  under  any  roof.     And 
harm?     Harm,"    she  repeated  slowly,   "what 
harm  could  come  to  me  through  you?" 


32  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  Hear  her,  hear  her !  "  he  cried  desperately. 
"  Love,  listen  to  me  now  and  trust  me.  I  'm 
not  much  older  than  you,  but  miles  older  in 
iniquity,  and  I  understand  you  better  than  you 
understand  yourself,  and,  God  help  me,  I  know 
pretty  well  what  sort  of  fellow  I  am.  Can  you 
doubt  that  were  there  the  smallest  chance  of 
happiness  for  us  in  flight  I  should  have  pro- 
posed it  long  ago?  I  know  places  full  of  sun- 
shine where  we  could  live  for  a  song.  Oh, 
how  I  Ve  dreamed  it  sleeping  and  waking ! 
We  'd  go  to  Venice,  to  Algiers  —  we  'd  wander 
through  the  far  east,  and  to  wonderful  islands, 
and  you  'd  love  it.  You  are  such  a  staunch 
comrade,  so  light  of  heart,  so  undismayed. 
You  'd  go,  would  you  not,  Monica,"  he  de- 
manded suddenly  with  fierce  eagerness ;  "  say, 
you  would  go  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  with  the 
scoundrel  I  should  then  be  —  a  good  bit  more 
scoundrel,  let  me  tell  you,  than  I  ever  was  yet ! 
But  you  'd  go?  " 

"  No,  Keith,"  she  answered  simply  and 
sorrowfully;  "  it  would  break  my  mother's 
heart,  and  you  —  could  —  never  desert." 

He  was  silent  long,  breathed  heavily,  strug- 
gling to  recover  his  clear  aim,  blurred  now 
by  the  alluring  vision  conjured  up  by  his  own 
involuntary  ardor. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  33 

"  That  is  it,"  he  said  at  last,  wearily.  "  Of 
course  I  knew  you  would  answer  so.  You  see, 
we  were  meant  to  be  honest,  you  and  I,  dear." 

"  We  are  honest,  Keith." 

"  Under  palms  and  bluest  skies,  you  could 
never  forget  your  mother's  broken  heart,  and 
I  should  never  cease  to  remember  that  I  'd 
lost  the  last  shred  of  honor  I  once  possessed, 
and  we  two  should  be  trailing  about  with  us 
everywhere  our  miserable  bedraggled  New 
England  consciences.  More  than  another 
man,"  he  was  speaking  with  broken  most  re- 
luctant speech  —  close  in  her  ear,  "  am  I 
bound  to  bear  the  consequences  of  my  own 
acts.  Nothing  that  I  ever  did  would  be  so 
vile  as  to  break  the  chains  I  once  forged  for 
myself_  " 

"  I  know.  I  know  — "  she  murmured 
warmly.  "Why  speak?  Why  tell  me  that?  " 

"  Partly  for  your  dear  sake.  Partly  for 
myself.  Because  sometimes  I  have  wild 
thoughts,"  he  answered  low,  "  and  I  am 
weak  — -  and  sorely  tempted,  and  —  and  then  " 
—  his  voice  attempted  to  strike  the  familiar 
jesting  note  —  "  it  is  wise  to  establish  the  fact 
that  there  is  nothing  at  all  tragic  about  us 
two.  Absurd  on  the  face  of  it !  My  whole- 
some sensible  Monica  trying  to  be  a  tragic 
3 


34  The  Garden  of  Eden 

figure !  You  were  meant  for  something  quite 
different,"  he  bowed  his  head  yearningly  over 
her,  "  quite  different,  dear,"  he  repeated  and 
kissed  her  upon  the  forehead  —  a  kiss  of 
brave  renunciation  of  which  she  knew  not 
the  worth. 

After  a  while  he  resumed,  with  a  fair  amount 
of  animation : 

"  But  after  we  note  the  things  which  as  you 
say  are  out  of  the  question,  perhaps  we  can 
judge  more  clearly  what  remains.  This  whole 
year  you  have  been  wonderfully  protected  by 
your  friend's  illness.  It  has  granted  me  a 
legitimate  pretext  for  seeing  you  every  day." 

"  It  was  always  so  short !  Dr.  Irwin  so 
appallingly  punctual.  Every  day,  the  same 
report  only  steadily  sadder,  more  dreary.  I 
trying  to  look  at  him  —  and  seeing  only  you, 
so  tall  —  with  the  grave  eyes  of  a  stranger  — 
and  taking  my  orders  like  a  soldier — " 

"  Like  a  sound  straight  sort  of  soldier. 
The  one  who  in  spite  of  all  their  servants  and 
nurses  has  borne  the  brunt  of  the  battle.  But 
consider,  dear,"  he  pursued  patiently,  "  all  this 
dreariness  has  saved  appearances,  and  you 
have  been  guarded  by  your  lifelong  devotion 
to  Lilian  Trevor,  by  Judge  Trevor's  garden, 
Judge  Trevor's  stately  self,  in  short  Judge 


The  Garden  of  Eden  35 

Trevor's  aegis  —  incredible  as  it  is  —  and  we 
have  met  safely,  in  every  respect,  so  far, 
heaven  knows  how  —  for  any  moment  the 
chances,  all  the  chances,  my  Monica,  might 
have  turned  against  you." 

"  We  have  met  very  rarely,"  she  said 
regretfully. 

"  Not  yet  too  often,  dear,  thank  heaven ! " 
he  retorted  doggedly.  "  Now  you  return  to 
town  and  your  mother,  and  this  is  what  I 
must  ask  you  squarely :  How  do  you  picture 
the  future  ?  " 

"  Why,  like  the  past,"  she  replied  faintly,  for 
he  was  beginning  to  shake  her  easy  serenity, 
"  meeting  you  now  and  then,  —  writing  to  you 
every  day  —  loving  you  as  I  may  from  afar, 
since  it  is  not  granted  me  to  love  you  near  — 
living  on  the  remembrance  of  the  last  brief 
meeting,  —  comforted  by  the  hope  of  the 
next  —  " 

"  And  always,  without  peace  or  rest,  always 
in  peril,  compromised  inevitably  sooner  or 
later!  You  whose  very  shoe  buttons  are 
matters  of  interest  to  the  community  —  no  — 
no  !  "  —  he  groaned. 

"Not  meet?  Never?  You  and  I?"  she 
cried  aghast.  "  In  the  same  town  and  not 
meet?  Why  that  would  be  impossible.  We 


36  The  Garden  of  Eden 

might  not  plan  it,  we  might  even  seek  to 
avoid  each  other.  But  we  should  be  all  the 
time  drawing  nearer,  nearer,  though  against 
our  will,  and  suddenly,  in  the  woods  or  on 
the  beach,  there  we  should  be,  heart  to  heart !  " 

"  Don't,  love,"  he  groaned.  "  I  cannot 
bear  it.  What  you  say  is  true.  We  can- 
not live  in  the  same  town  and  not  meet.  We 
cannot  live  in  the  same  town  and  meet.  I  see 
no  rescue  for  you  except  —  I  leave  you.  And 
so  —  I  will  go  away." 

Neither  moved  nor  spoke.  The  man  leaned 
back  with  arms  hanging  limp  as  after  exhaust- 
ing physical  effort.  Silence  and  darkness 
more  intense  than  the  silence  and  darkness  of 
the  night  encompassed  them. 

"  You  cannot,  my  poor  Keith,"  she  stam- 
mered. "  You  do  not  mean  it.  It  would  be 
too  disastrous  —  you  are  barely  established  — 
you  —  " 

"What  does  that  matter?"  he  said  drearily. 
"I  have  no  ambition,  and  I  could  make  a 
living  for  myself  and  —  and — those  depend- 
ent upon  me  anywhere,  I  suppose.  It  is  the 
only  thing  to  do.  Oh,  I  ought  to  have  done  it 
before  now.  I  ought  to  have  gone  without  a 
word.  That's  clear  enough.  But  —  I  had 
not  the  strength." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  37 

"That  we  two  should  make  each  other 
miserable  !  "  she  moaned. 

"  Because  I  love  you  so  !  Because  you  are 
the  dearest  thing  on  earth  to  me !  Because  I 
want  you  —  near  me  —  close  to  my  heart  — 
always  —  every  day  and  hour.  Because  if  we 
go  on,  there  will  be  trouble  —  for  nothing 
stands  still.  Your  fair  name  will  be  soiled. 
And  I  could  do  nothing.  I  who  would  give 
my  life  for  you  could  not  help  you  an  atom. 
If  they  should  simply  say  we  were  here  to- 
gether to-night,  the  only  thing  I  could  do 
would  be  to  put  a  bullet  through  my  head. 
It  would  not  help  that  what  they  say  would 
be  untrue.  I  could  not  bear  it.  I  Ve  made 
a  muddle  of  my  own  life.  If  I  can  help  it  I 
won't  make  a  muddle  of  yours.  I  would 
rather  see  you  dead  than  hurt  in  any  way 
through  me,  I  would  rather  see  you  dead !  " 

Dropping  upon  his  knees  he  held  her  fast 
with  strong  arms  and  pressed  his  face  against 
hers  and  rocked  her  slightly  to  and  fro  and 
murmured  indistinct  fond  names  until  she 
heard  a  sob  and  felt  hot  tears,  a  man's  tears, 
on  her  cheek,  — and  she  was  frightened. 

"  Oh,"  she  faltered,  helpless,  cut  to  the 
heart,  "  you  must  not  suffer  so  —  Poor  dear  — 
My  poor,  poor  Keith  !  There  must  be  a  way. 
We  will  find  it  together." 


38  The  Garden  of  Eden 

He  shook  his  head  hopelessly,  his  cheek 
against  hers. 

"You  would  rather  see  me  dead?"  she 
questioned  awestruck. 

"  Dead,"  he  whispered. 

"  You  could  give  up  all  you  have  gained 
here,  inch  by  inch,  after  all  your  hardships 
and  disappointments?" 

He  nodded. 

"  You  could  really  —  leave  me,  Keith  ?  " 

"  I  must." 

And  because  he,  her  pride  and  strength, 
was  bowed  in  grief,  something  began  to  rise 
above  the  softness  and  sweetness  of  her  love, 
above  her  mere  fondness  for  the  man  —  some 
nobler  instinct  strong  to  save. 

"  Keith,"  she  said  brokenly,  with  dry  throat, 
"  a  thought  has  come  to  me.  I  cannot  speak 
it  yet,  —  not  yet,  dear  —  There  may  be  another 
way.  But  you  shall  not  suffer  so  for  me  — 
not  like  this  —  you  shall  not,  Keith." 

Speechless,  they  cowered  miserably  together 
in  the  dread  shadow  of  parting.  The  small 
shrill  note  of  a  bell  rang  out  sharply  in  the 
still  night. 

Monica  sprang  up. 

"  Lilian's  bell !  She  wants  me  —  I  mean  — 
Pater  wants  me  !  " 


The  Garden  of  Eden 


39 


"  Go,"  he  said,  beside  himself  with  alarm. 
"  I  ought  not  to  have  let  you  stay.  I  ought 
not  to  have  let  you  come.  Oh,  love,  love  — 
that  I  can  be  so  weak  a  thing  and  let  you  run 
such  risks.  Go  Monica —  FAST  !  " 


40  The  Garden  of  Eden 


II 


As  Monica  crept  softly  up  the  dark  stairway, 
some  one  above  suddenly  turned  on  light,  and 
she  saw  Judge  Trevor  and  a  servant  standing 
in  the  upper  hall. 

"  Did  you  remember  to  bolt  the  library  door, 
my  dear?  "  asked  the  old  man,  tranquilly. 

"Yes,  Pater." 

"I  beg  you  will  pardon  me,  dear  child,"  he 
went  on  with  punctilious  distinctness.  "I 
took  the  liberty  to  ring.  I  know  you  always 
rest  better  in  the  open  air,  and,  thanks  to  our 
good  dogs,  the  garden  is  a  safe  place.  But  I 
feared  you  were  forgetting  the  lapse  of  time, 
and  the  night  is  damp. " 

"Thanks,  Pater." 

"I  hope  you  are  not  too  chilly.  Let  me 
take  you  to  your  room."  Offering  her  his 
arm  in  his  ceremonious  fashion,  —  "  Charles, 
pray  bring  a  small  glass  of  sherry  to  Miss 
Monica's  room." 

As  they  crossed  the  hall,  three  doors  closed 
in  muffled  succession.  In  her  room  Judge 
Trevor  remarked  urbanely: 


The  Garden  of  Eden  41 

"Some  of  our  amiable  cousins  were  per- 
turbed by  your  absence.  There  was  a  per- 
ceptible flutter  of  solicitude.  It  seems  one 
of  them  went  to  your  room,  and,  not  finding 
you,  rang  for  the  servants.  Cousin  Sarah 
even  proposed  heroic  measures  —  search  in 
the  garden  —  lanterns.  You  might  feel  faint, 
she  declared.  I  was  obliged  to  say  I  pre- 
ferred no  one  should  disturb  you,  that  you 
had  earned  your  right  to  solitude,  and  fainting 
lay  utterly  beyond  the  range  of  your  talents. 
This  panic  in  the  dovecote  is  in  itself  of  no 
consequence  whatever,  but  you  will  under- 
stand why  I  finally  rang  Lilian's  bell.  I 
hope  it  did  not  startle  you." 

"Dear  Pater!"  she  said  mechanically. 
Cousin  Sarah  and  her  adjuncts  dwelt  not  one 
instant  in  her  thoughts.  Meanwhile  the 
penetrating  gaze  of  the  old  man's  startlingly 
beautiful  blue  eyes  rested  on  her  white,  dazed 
face. 

"Thank  you,  Charles.  You  may  go  now. 
No,  I  shall  require  nothing  further.  Besides, 
Nichols  is  near  if  I  should  need  her.  And, 
Charles,"  he  added  kindly,  "I  hope  you  will 
have  at  least  a  good  night's  rest.  You  have 
been  very  faithful,  very  helpful.  Now,  my 
dear,  drink  this  at  once." 


42  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Under  his  profoundly  meditative  glance 
she  sipped  the  wine  with  reluctant  little 
gulps,  and  stared  at  him  apathetically  over 
her  glass. 

Partially  paralyzed,  in  physique  hardly  more 
than  a  bowed  small  skeleton  walking  about 
in  men's  clothing,  Judge  Trevor  suggested, 
in  the  best  sense  of  the  phrase,  the  air  of 
courts.  With  the  subtle  flavor  of  his  anti- 
quated decorum,  with  his  rare  intellectual 
supremacy,  his  faint  wise  smile,  half  sweet- 
ness half  cynicism,  there  he  stood,  the  gentle 
old  aristocrat,  constraining  them  to  do  his 
will;  mindful  of  his  weary  old  servant,  mind- 
ful of  the  heart  tumult  of  the  self-absorbed 
young  girl,  mindful  of  all  the  world  except  of 
his  plucky  old  self. 

Monica  was  still  more  or  less  in  the  arbor, 
and  the  laming  terror  of  the  thought  which 
had  confronted  her  there  at  the  last  half  be- 
numbed her  faculties;  but  she  now  roused 
herself  sufficiently  to  say: 

"  May  I  not  watch  with  you  to-night  ? " 

"I  thank  you,"  he  replied  graciously. 
"Everything  is  arranged.  It  is  the  last 
night  —  and  I  prefer  to  be  alone,"  he  added, 
his  face  placid  and  inscrutable. 

"Then  I  will  go  over  an  instant  to  Lilian." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  43 

"That  too  I  must  deny  you,  dear  child," 
he  returned  with  sweet  imperturbability. 
"  Lilian  needs  nothing  more.  I  need  noth- 
ing more.  But  you  need  all  your  strength." 

The  great  clear  eyes  regarded  her  unwav- 
ering, insistent. 

"Pater,"  she  said  abruptly,  "I  was  with 
Keith  Lowell  in  the  garden." 

"I  hope  Dr.  Lowell  is  very  well  this  even- 
ing," he  rejoined  courteously,  with  the  air  of 
one  for  whom  life  has  no  surprises. 

"Thanks,  yes,"  she  murmured. 

"You  will  see  your  mother  to-morrow?  " 

"  Yes,  Pater,  after  —  afterwards. " 

"After  the  funeral,"  he  amended  carefully. 
"  An  admirable  woman,  your  mother ;  a 
woman  of  sound  judgment  and  unfailing 
goodness  of  heart.  I  have  always  admired 
your  mother." 

She  waited  mute,  forlorn. 

Stroking  her  white  cheek  with  a  bony 
trembling  hand,  and  smiling  steadily,  he 
said: 

"Brave  little  friend,  Lilian's  friend,  talk 
with  your  mother." 

Suddenly,  inexplicably  —  her  emotions  were 
always  inopportune  —  the  pathos  of  his  unsel- 
fishness, his  isolation  touched  her  beyond 


44  The  Garden  of  Eden 

control,  and  she  exclaimed  with  a  rush  of  hot 
tears : 

"Ah,  Pater,  Pater,  how  good  you  are !" 

"That  is  well,  Monica.  Tears  are  better 
for  youth  than  a  white  strained  face.  That 
was  no  sort  of  face  for  our  bright  Monica.  I 
am  much  relieved,  for  now  you  will  sleep  I 
think.  Good  night,  dear  child." 

"You  are  so  good,"  she  repeated. 

"Men  are  not  good;  only  women  are  good," 
rejoined  the  shrivelled  old  gentleman,  with 
his  grand  air.  At  the  door  he  turned  and 
said: 

"  Talk  with  your  excellent  mother,  Monica. " 

All  night  long  the  thought  haunted  Monica 
like  a  grim,  an  unbidden  guest.  Menacing, 
inflexible,  it  would  not  budge  for  all  her 
pretty  sophistry,  her  logic  of  the  heart.  She 
begged  and  prayed,  she  wept  and  writhed  be- 
fore it.  "I  cannot,  I  cannot,"  she  moaned. 
"  Not  this.  Anything  but  this.  There  must 
be  another  way." 

"I  am  the  way,"  responded  the  stern 
Thought.  "Not  a  rosy  way,  not  a  happy 
way ;  nay,  a  thorny,  lonely  way  —  but  the 
only  way  for  you." 

Through  the  night  watches  her  soft  youth, 
loving  self,  loving  pleasure,  loving  love, 


The  Garden  of  Eden 


45 


seeking  its  own  with  blind,  elemental  force, 
contended  passionately  with  the  Thought ; 
flung  itself  desperately  against  the  intruder, 
and  was  always  worsted;  sought  to  hide,  to 
flee,  and  found  no  refuge,  no  escape,  while 
across  the  hall  the  wise  old  man  sat  motion- 
less by  his  beloved  dead,  his  patient  heart 
brooding  down  the  past. 

But  some  brief  dense  sleep  toward  morn- 
ing, a  cold  bath,  and  the  sharp  autumnal  air 
restored  to  her  elastic  body  its  freshness,  and 
re-endowed  her  spirit  with  its  birthright,  — 
immoderate  hopefulness.  Keith  had  well 
said  in  the  arbor  she  was  no  tragic  figure. 
Her  morning  mood  was  a  great  upspringing 
of  vital  forces,  an  intense  joy  in  mere  exist- 
ence, an  eagerness  to  sally  forth  and  conquer 
a  few  worlds. 

She  stood  at  her  open  window,  and  looked 
down  on  the  garden,  so  flooded  with  sunlight 
that  bare  brown  twigs  shone  bravely,  dead 
leaves  grew  gay  and  golden.  Between  the 
giant  trunks  of  a  belt  of  old  oaks  circling  the 
embankment,  and  through  the  splendid  mul- 
lioned  tracing  of  their  naked  branches,  she 
saw  the  water,  sparkling  and  rough.  In  this 
electric  atmosphere  the  Thought  dwindled 
and  slunk  away  to  the  dim  recesses  of  her 


46  The  Garden  of  Eden 

mind.  Her  glance  rested  upon  the  roof  of 
the  arbor  nestling  in  shrubbery,  but  the 
spectres  of  the  night  were  exorcised.  Her 
lover's  forebodings  and  manful  resolve  no 
longer  chilled  her  heart.  The  crooked  would 
straighten  itself,  facts  would  melt  away,  the 
obliging  world  would  relinquish  its  solid 
precepts  and  more  solid  prejudices,  other 
miracles  would  take  place,  —  in  short,  the 
heavens  would  open  for  her  and  Keith. 
Vaguely,  but  thus  benignly,  in  the  strength 
of  the  morning  and  of  her  great  tempera- 
mental lightheartedness,  she  appointed  her 
destiny. 

But  the  day's  duties  demanded  her.  Pres- 
ently she  was  making  the  round  of  the  long 
rooms,  inspecting  them  with  a  careful  busi- 
ness-like mien.  As  quasi-daughter  of  the 
house,  she  was  wont  to  do  this  for  Lilian,  and 
did  it  now,  alas,  for  Lilian.  Such  a  reflection 
evoked  by  poor  commonplace  acts  could  shake 
her  mightily,  and  blind  her  eyes  with  a  mist 
of  sudden  tears  which  she  jealously  concealed 
and  controlled.  Yet  before  that  long,  solemn, 
strange  shape  that  was  not  Lilian,  she  could 
stand  tearless,  at  moments  moved  indeed  by 
a  mysterious  awe,  yet  oftener  destitute  of  all 
emotion,  as  if  her  heart  were  benumbed. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  47 

Still  worse,  and  for  this  she  reproached  her- 
self with  deep  distress,  her  mind  there  in  the 
audience  chamber  of  death  could  obstinately 
dwell  upon  some  foolish  thing  unmeet,  she 
deemed,  to  enter  these  chill  precincts. 

"Dearest  Lilian,"  she  implored  humbly 
many  times  that  day,  "  forgive  me  that  I  can- 
not mourn  aright.  You  know  that  I  loved 
you.  You  know  I  shall  always  love  you.  I 
cannot  tell  why  I  am  not  prostrate  with  grief. 
I  suffered  when  you  suffered.  Now  you  are 
at  rest,  I  am  calm.  But  I  love  you  dearly, 
Lilian,  even  if  I  am  cold  and  strange." 

Cold  and  strange,  the  ubiquitous  cousins 
gliding  about  in  new  crepe  trains,  and  weep- 
ing solicitously  behind  handkerchiefs  bordered 
with  one  inch  of  anguish,  unanimously  pro- 
nounced her.  They  were,  they  regretted  to 
say,  unfavorably  impressed  with  Miss  Ran- 
dolph. Since  she  was  not,  after  all,  of  the 
family,  she  gave  herself,  they  thought,  impor- 
tant airs.  In  this  respect  they  may  have 
been  not  altogether  wide  of  the  mark. 

Monica  on  her  tour  of  inspection  ap- 
proached Lilian's  grand  piano,  closed,  mute, 
weighed  down  by  sad  trophies,  a  mound  of 
tuberoses,  camellias  and  palms.  Lifting  the 
plush  cover,  the  girl  touched  with  lingering 


48  The  Garden  of  Eden 

caress  the  swelling  flank  of  the  dumb  in- 
strument, once  so  informed  with  soulful  life 
when,  in  the  twilights  of  blessed  years, 
Lilian,  calm,  powerful,  with  large,  supple 
hands,  commanded  all  harmonies,  invoked 
and  revealed  the  spirits  of  the  masters.  In 
the  magisterial  arm-chair  at  the  left,  Judge 
Trevor,  to  whom  Beethoven  was  a  dead  lan- 
guage, all  music  but  an  indifferent  noise, 
used,  whether  friends  were  present  or  not,  to 
hold  out  manfully,  tenacious,  sedate  and 
suave  to  the  last  chords.  Thirty  years'  differ- 
ence in  their  ages;  yet  what  pair  of  young 
lovers  could  compare  with  them  in  mutual 
deference,  devotion  and  subtle  sympathy !  To 
watch  their  intercourse  was  a  liberal  educa- 
tion. Ah,  the  memories !  The  familiar,  life- 
less things  that  lifted  up  voices  and  wept ! 
There  were  the  vases  they  always  filled  with 
goldenrod  after  easy  summer  drives  along 
interminable  wood  roads.  Even  the  grinning 
pagodas,  the  trifles  in  ivory,  silver,  and  shell 
spoke  with  tongues,  told  tales  of  grace  and 
goodness,  recalled  some  apt  word,  some  droll 
fancy.  For  instance,  that  little  Japanese 
paper-knife  —  Monica  was  regarding  it  fondly, 
but  hearing  a  rustle,  put  it  down  and  passed 
on. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  49 

In  that  great  dining-room  with  its  old  and 
handsome  appointments,  she  had  had  her 
place  every  Sunday  evening  since  she  was  a 
little  thing  —  and  on  every  week-day  when 
her  mother  did  not  enter  protest.  What 
could  they  have  wanted  of  the  crude  young 
girl,  and  how  boundless  their  indulgence ! 
What  had  she  not  heard  there!  Merely  to 
look  at  Lilian,  perfect  and  happy  hostess, 
placed  a  timid  soul  at  ease.  Beyond  pretti- 
ness,  far  more  than  fascinating,  with  the 
pale,  irregular,  rugged  face,  the  rich  voice, 
the  large  kind  smile,  the  eloquent  hands  — 
men  loved  to  talk  with  her,  for  she  never 
reminded  them  that  she  was  cleverer  than 
they.  Yet,  whatever  was  under  discussion  at 
those  bright  dinners,  —  books,  pictures,  poli- 
tics, law,  human  problems, — her  completing 
final  word,  whether  wise  or  witty  or  gracious 
or  profoundly  kind,  was  as  indispensable  as 
the  keystone  to  the  arch.  -Oh,  the  laughter! 
The  laughter!  O,  sweet,  wise  Lilian,  large 
of  brain,  large  of  heart  —  what  you  were  can- 
not die.  What  you  were,  you  are,  in  our 
hearts  as  in  the  larger  life  —  that  wonderful 
new  land  where  you  are  gone. 

Monica  leaned  on  a  high  carved  chair,  and 
there  was  heartbreak  in  her  smile.  But 
4 


50  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Cousin  Sarah  coming  in  noiselessly,  and  hav- 
ing no  key  to  it,  misinterpreted  it  woefully, 
while  Monica  stiffened  and  passed  on;  for  she 
had  not  yet  learned  to  be  merciful  to  bores  and 
prying  fussy  folk. 

In  Lilian's  corner  of  the  library,  Monica 
sat  down  in  a  low  chair,  stared  stolidly  at  the 
pile  of  soft-hued  silk  pillows,  and  here  the 
dreary  sense  of  personal  loss,  often  strangely 
absent,  seized  her  suddenly  with  force.  The 
room  had  the  sacredness  of  a  confessional; 
Monica's  priest,  year  after  year,  had  been 
that  older  friend  to  whom  nothing  was  worth- 
less that  the  child  chattered,  and,  as  the  years 
went  on,  the  girl  and  woman  thought  and 
dreamed. 

The  doors  opened  on  the  broad  veranda: 
the  generous  sunny  garden  slope,  where 
Lilian  used  to  mother  her  roses  like  children, 
and  know  if  one  among  thousands  drooped 
and  hung  its  head;  the  massive  oaks  standing 
guard ;  the  vistas  of  flashing  water  and  sum- 
mer sky  ;  breaths  from  the  flowers,  breaths  from 
the  bay;  the  serried  ranks  of  books  gravely 
listening;  and  on  the  cushions  the  waxen  face 
gleaming  with  intelligence  and  goodness. 

In  this  corner  Monica  had  first  heard  of 
Keith.  Vaguely,  delicately,  with  infinite 


The  Garden  of  Eden 


51 


indulgence,  Lilian  told  a  tale  indistinct, 
mysterious  in  outline,  clouded  by  the  girl's 
ignorance  of  life,  and  of  foreign  detail.  But 
the  story  haunted  and  thrilled  Monica,  and 
Keith  Lowell,  before  he  ever  approached  the 
town,  before  she  ever  dreamed  of  seeing  the 
man  face  to  face,  loomed,  in  her  imagination, 
like  some  antique  figure  of  expiation:  some 
strong,  sad  soul  —  shadowy  —  Prometheus 
like. 

It  was  a  year  ago  that  Lilian,  lying  on 
those  pillows  where  she  lay  more  and  more, 
asked  Monica  simply  if  she  would  come  and 
help  her  and  Pater  bear  the  illness.  If  things 
should  go  tolerably  well  they  would  read  some 
good  books  and  play  Schumann  symphonies 
—  and  study  all  the  Wagner  Leitmotive  —  be- 
sides, she  'd  got  a  lot  of  charming  new  things 
of  Grieg  and  Rubinstein  —  and  they  'd  have 
bright  people  to  dinner,  and  a  nice  sort  of 
winter  although  quiet;  and  if  things  should 
go  the  other  way,  and  it  seemed  they  might, 
she  added,  in  a  bright,  calm  parenthesis  — 
she  'd  had  some  swoons  or  something  rather 
uncanny  —  would  Monica  stay  with  her  to  the 
last.  She  added,  Mrs.  Randolph  had,  with 
splendid  unselfishness,  approved  the  plan, 
and  Monica  should  see  her  mother  every  day. 


52  The  Garden  of  Eden 

The  year  was  over,  and  this  was  the  day  of 
Lilian's  funeral. 

Monica  rose  and  rearranged  the  pretty  sofa 
pillows,  and  some  part  of  her  brain  was  care- 
ful as  to  the  gradation  of  color. 

All  that  was  happening  in  the  dear  old 
house  seemed  a  wrong  to  Lilian.  She  had 
made  her  home  harmonious  as  was  her  life. 
Even  the  terrible  illness  she  kept  in  abey- 
ance as  long  as  her  bright  spirit  was  in  com- 
mand. The  sure  knowledge  of  her  doom  she 
had  borne  with  complete  absence  of  pose, 
spoke  little  of  bodily  infirmities,  and  never 
otherwise  than  with  a  certain  negligent  grace, 
a  benevolent  euphuism,  knowing,  unerringly, 
the  others  would  suffer  less  poignantly  while 
she  had  strength  to  smile.  One  afternoon 
six  months  ago,  they  had  propped  her  up  in 
her  bed  at  her  request,  brought  her  jewels, 
trinkets  and  other  personal  effects,  to  which 
she  attached  some  sentimental  worth,  and 
noted  her  wishes  concerning  them.  Lilian 
presided  with  a  gentle  air  of  doing  the  honors 
as  at  one  of  her  own  dinners.  Judge  Trevor, 
equally  tranquil  and  courteous,  alert  to  meet 
her  commands;  she,  Monica,  at  first  startled 
and  distressed,  but  constrained  by  their  seren- 
ity, finally  fetching  box  and  vase  in  matter- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  53 

of-fact  obedience,  taking  part  in  the  discussion 
even  smiling  at  Lilian's  droll  reminiscences 
and  at  Pater's  mildly  sardonic  comment. 

"  Thanks,  it  has  been  very  pleasant,  it  has 
amused  me,"  she  said  cordially.  Then  she 
and  he,  hand  in  hand,  placid,  silent,  sat  wait- 
ing—  waiting  —  while  Monica,  strangely  up- 
lifted, yet  with  turbulent  heart,  fled  to  the 
garden  to  revere  them,  to  question  and  rebel. 

Now  she  asked  herself  why  people  should 
draw  down  their  mouths  for  Lilian  who  never 
once  had  drawn  down  her  mouth  for  herself? 
Why  all  the  ghastly  black  mummery,  the 
voices  and  heavy  tread  of  strange  men,  the 
rank  odors  of  disinfectants?  Even  the  mes- 
senger boys  with  flowers  felt  it  incumbent  to 
thrust  before  their  grinning  faces  the  sudden 
tragic  mask. 

Was  this  the  best  we  could  do,  —  the 
noblest,  the  tenderest?  How  had  the  whole 
perfunctory  procedure  changed  since  that  wise 
protest  in  the  sixteenth  century?  The  fear- 
ful looks  and  astonishing  countenances,  the 
visitation  of  dismayed  and  swooning  friends, 
the  pale-looking,  distracted,  and  whining 
servants. 

But  the  large  funeral,  conducted  with  all 
the  hopeless,  cumbersome  rites  and  circum- 


54  The  Garden  of  Eden 

stantial  torture  with  which  the  thing  we  call 
civilization  at  the  close  of  the  nineteenth 
century  encompasses  the  beloved  dead  and 
exhausts  weary  mourners,  wore  to  a  close. 
Judge  Trevor  and  Monica  took  that  slow,  sad 
drive  together  —  silent  and  calm  —  except 
once,  when  the  girl  was  moved  with  nameless 
compassion,  because  the  old  gentleman,  shiv- 
ering under  his  furs,  small  as  an  emaciated 
child,  leaned  from  his  corner  to  adjust  a  rug 
which  had  fallen  from  her  knees. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  55 


III 


MONICA  leaned  back,  heard  as  if  far  away  the 
crackling  of  the  wood  fire,  the  simmering  of 
the  tea-kettle,  and  the  gentle  movements  of  her 
mother's  hands  among  the  cups  and  saucers. 
The  very  peace  of  the  familiar  surroundings 
served  to  accentuate  the  official  dreariness  and 
lugubrious  bustle  of  the  scenes  she  had  but 
left.  In  this  present  restfulness,  her  heart  be- 
gan to  mourn  for  Lilian  simply,  intensely;  at 
the  same  time  she  experienced  a  physical  sen- 
sation of  sinking — sinking  into  bottomless 
depths,  and  closed  her  eyes  most  wearily  with 
a  desolate  sigh,  for  before  this  good  mother  no 
mask  was  needed,  no  proud  control,  no  stern 
repression  of  stray  emotions. 

"  Drink  your  tea,  dear."  Hearing  the  cordial 
voice  full  of  tender  authority,  the  tired  girl 
vaguely  recognized  after  the  fatigue  of  much 
soul-conflict  the  enfolding  sweetness  of  the 
tutelage  which  this  fair,  strong  mother  had 
never  quite  abdicated. 

"  It  is  ghastly  business  —  a  funeral,"  Monica 
said  faintly. 


56  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  It  is  harrowing,  certainly,"  returned  the 
sensible  voice ;  "  but  you  would  not  have  them 
dance." 

"  No,  but  I  'd  have  it  calm,  sweet  —  sure  and 
self-composed,  like  Lilian  herself — beautiful 
with  flowers,  noble  with  real  music,  not  dese- 
crated by  cheap  hymns,  —  different,  quite  dif- 
ferent," she  murmured,  her  eyes  closed. 

"  Doubtless  it  will  be  different  and  better 
some  day,"  Mrs.  Randolph  rejoined  easily; 
"  but  that  we  must  leave  to  Church  and  State, 
I  suppose.  Meanwhile  —  " 

Monica  sat  up  quickly,  and  looked  at  her 
mother.  That  soft "  meanwhile  "  was  eloquent 
in  incompleteness. 

"  Drink  your  cup  out,  Monica,  and  let  me 
give  you  some  more  tea,"  Mrs.  Randolph 
urged,  "and  eat  a  little,  dear.  After  one  be- 
gins, it  is  not  so  difficult  Mary  made  the  cake 
specially  for  you.  Or  a  sandwich?  They  are 
so  very  light.  These,  here,  are  chicken." 

Monica  complied  mechanically,  her  ques- 
tioning eyes  still  on  her  mother.  Each  gazed 
at  the  other  as  at  herself  in  a  mirror,  or  as  at 
the  loved  features  of  a  sister,  so  close  was  the 
resemblance  between  mother  and  child.  Close, 
too,  sisterly  and  satisfying  was  their  compan- 
ionship, unclouded  ever  save  for  the  present 


The  Garden  of  Eden  57 

portentous  shadow.  They  had  the  same  deep 
blue,  emotional  eyes  in  faces  otherwise  calm, 
in  which  was  no  suggestion  of  pessimism,  noth- 
ing fin  de  stecle  or  neurotic.  They  were  fair, 
strong,  tall  women,  by  nature  blithe  of  spirit, 
warm  of  heart,  and  had  loving,  very  human 
mouths,  such  as  Murillo  gives  his  long  proces- 
sion of  beatific  and  comely  and  comfortable- 
looking  saints  in  St.  Clara's  dying  vision. 
Contemplating  the  other's  most  dear  and  famil- 
iar countenance,  the  soft  lines  grew  a  bit  firmer, 
for  each  knew  the  time  was  now  come  for  the 
long-deferred  but  inevitable  battle  royal.  Mrs. 
Randolph  drew  her  chair  nearer  the  fire,  and 
sat  down.  Monica  steadied  herself. 

"  How  has  our  dear  old  judge  borne  the 
day?  " 

"  Well,  I  think.  One  cannot  tell,  he  is  so 
uncomplaining.  After  all,  what  is  to-day, 
hideous  as  it  is,  in  comparison  with  all  the 
other  days?  " 

"  Little  indeed,  yet  infinitely  mournful,  be- 
cause the  end." 

Monica  shuddered. 

"  Are  you  too  tired  to  talk  with  me,  dear, 
this  evening?  Would  you  rather  wait  till  to- 
morrow?" 

"  Certainly  not,  mamma      I  am  not  so  very 


58  The  Garden  of  Eden 

tired,  not  physically  tired,  that  is  —  and  wait- 
ing will  help  neither  of  us,"  she  added  sadly. 

After  another  long  pause,  Mrs.  Randolph 
began : 

"  There  is  much  unsaid  between  us,  Monica." 

"  Not  unsaid,  because  you  were  too  good : 
said  once :  but  not  resaid  in  these  last  months," 
sighed  the  girl,  hardly  above  her  breath. 

The  mother  gave  her  one  rapid,  pitiful 
glance,  stared  anew  at  the  fire,  and  asked,  with 
great  mildness : 

"  How  have  you  planned  your  future,  Mo- 
nica? I  mean  the  immediate  future." 

"  I  have  planned  nothing,  mamma.  I  have 
had  no  time,"  the  girl  answered  pleadingly, 
startled  to  hear  from  her  mother's  lips  the  echo 
of  her  lover's  words. 

"  Yes,  dear.  I  know  you  are  still  living  in 
the  midst  of  sorrow  and  excitement.  You  have 
not  consciously  made  definite  plans  for  the 
morrow.  But  vaguely,  involuntarily,  you  must 
have  pictured  your  course.  Dear  Lilian's  mar- 
tyrdom is  over." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  murmured  Monica  passion- 
ately. 

"  Thank  God !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Randolph. 
"  But  this  changes  everything  —  and  it  breaks 
my  silence.  I  could  not  speak  when  you  were 


The  Garden  of  Eden  59 

bound,  and  had  such  worlds  of  care  on  your 
young  shoulders.  I  thought  you  had  heart- 
ache enough,  dear.  But  you  have  held  out 
bravely  the  whole  long  year  of  bondage,"  she 
added  with  a  quick  glance  of  pride.  "You 
have  been  a  wonderful  friend  —  ready  to  lay 
down  your  life  for  Lilian,  and  '  greater  love 
hath  no  man  than  this.'  It  is  much  of  your 
life  that  you  have  given  her,  if  the  truth  were 
known  —  but  then  you  have  more  life  to  give 
than  most."  Forgetting  her  theme,  she  looked 
fondly  at  her  child,  exulting  in  her,  idolizing 
her  beyond  measure  and  reason. 

Monica  listened  motionless  and  silent. 
What  had  she  ever  given  Lilian,  weighed 
against  Lilian's  incomparable  sweetness  to  her? 
What  was  the  poor  little  futile  year  of  service, 
doomed  to  failure  from  the  start  —  the  year 
that  could  not  save  the  dear  one  from  one 
pang,  or  ward  off  one  single  disaster  of  the 
many  that,  hovering  long,  descended  at  last  to 
blight  and  kill?  Strange,  fateful  year  in  which 
brain  and  hand  had  worked  their  staunchest, 
and  the  heart,  thrilled  and  swayed  by  alternate 
sorrow  and  love,  and  struggling  in  each  in- 
stance in  a  distinctly  lost  cause,  had  yet  dared 
to  know  great  gleams  of  gladness.  But  all 
was  over.  Lilian  and  the  year  were  dead. 


60  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Keith  said  it  last  night  in  the  arbor.  His 
thoughts  were  her  mother's  thoughts ;  his  anx- 
iety hers.  But  why  would  they  not  leave 
things  to  arrange  themselves  ;  why  not  drift  a 
little,  and  rest  and  be  still?  —  since  what  was 
infinitely  dear  must  suffer  and  die  miserably, 
and  what  was  high  and  beyond  all  dreaming 
lovely  was  forbidden  and  called  sin.  Heart- 
sick, oppressed,  Monica  waited. 

After  the  brief  outburst  of  maternal  com- 
placency Mrs.  Randolph  resumed  quietly,  with 
a  determined  air  of  knowing  well  and  meaning 
to  speak  without  subterfuge  or  circumlocution, 
the  text  which  she  had  traced  with  her  heart's 
blood  and  painfully  conned  in  bitter  hours. 

"  Monica,  you  know  how  it  was  when  Lilian 
begged  me  to  let  you  come  to  her.  I  thought 
it  would  occupy  you,  monopolize  you  —  divert 
your  mind  from  Dr.  Lowell  —  in  short,  be  your 
safeguard  —  rescue  you.  So  I  gave  my  con- 
sent eagerly  —  and  you  promised,  with  my 
sanction,  to  stay  to  the  end,  whatever  should 
come.  I  thought  you  were  in  a  safe  haven. 
Seeking  the  best  for  you,  I  did  the  worst.  I 
could  not  foresee  Judge  Trevor  would  summon 
Dr.  Lowell  in  consultation  with  Dr.  Irwin." 

"  No  one  foresaw  that,  mamma." 

"  It  broke  my  heart  anew.     I  have  not  had 


The  Garden  of  Eden  61 

one  moment's  peace  since.  I  could  not  bear 
the  thought  of  those  daily  meetings.  But  I 
recognized  that  it  was  inevitable.  Neither 
you  nor  I  could  retract.  We  had  given  our 
word." 

"  Mother,  you  have  been  generous !  Never 
think  I  do  not  know  that." 

"  Besides,"  continued  the  mother  with  her 
large  air  of  retrospection  and  fidelity  to  every 
point  in  her  long  premeditated  argument,  "  the 
exigencies  of  that  horrible  illness  and  your 
lifelong  devotion  to  Lilian  legitimized  to  the 
world  your  presence  in  that  house  even  if  they 
could  never  to  me  sanctify  certain  aspects  of 
the  situation.  I  could  not  blame  you  for  being 
at  your  post.  I  endured  and  was  silent.  But 
it  is  over —  all  the  good  you  did:  all  the  rest 
that  was  not  good.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
now,  Monica?  " 

Monica  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  know,  mamma." 

"  '  I  don't  know '  is  imbecile,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Randolph  with  well-tempered  urbanity.  "  It  is 
your  duty  to  know.  It  is  your  duty  to  think. 
We  are  not  here  in  this  world  to  drift  like  sea- 
weed. Whatever  intelligence  we  have,  it  is  our 
duty  to  drive  to  the  utmost.  It  is  not  like  you 
to  shirk  responsibility,  Monica.  You  were  not 


62  The  Garden  of  Eden 

cowardly  once  —  when  your  conscience  was 
clear." 

"  My  conscience  reproaches  me  for  nothing, 
mamma,  and  if  I  am  cowardly  of  speech  it  is 
because  I  dread  to  hurt  you,  and  be  hurt  my- 
self—  and  we  always  hurt  each  other,  you 
know,  dear,  when  we  speak  of  this." 

Mrs.  Randolph  sighed  assent. 

"  But  it  is  not  words  that  hurt  most.  What 
are  they  to  the  situation  itself,  that  leaves  me 
no  peace  by  day  or  by  night?  " 

"  I  know,  dear,"  Monica  agreed  regretfully. 

Mrs.  Randolph  poured  out  some  tea,  drank 
it  and  reflected  it  was  difficult  to  make  head- 
way with  Monica,  who  appeared  to  sym- 
pathetically deplore  the  distress  she  was 
involuntarily  causing,  yet  to  retain  a  great 
pagan  unconsciousness  of  moral  wrong. 

"  When  did  you  see  Dr.  Lowell  last?" 

"  I  gave  him  my  hand  silently  one  instant  in 
the  hall  to-day  as  he  came  in  and  I  passed  out, 
and  I  met  him  by  appointment  last  night  late, 
in  the  garden." 

"  A  rendezvous !     While  Lilian  lay  dead  !  " 

"  I  could  do  no  more  for  her,"  Monica  re- 
plied gently.  "  You  have  said  yourself  you 
think  I  did  what  I  could.  Lilian  did  not  mind 
my  seeing  him  now  and  then.  Pater,  too, 


The  Garden  of  Eden  63 

knew  very  well.  It  was  not  often  at  best.  So 
I  think  it  was  no  disloyalty  to  Lilian  that  I 
spoke  with  him  alone  last  night  —  after  so 
long — " 

"  Disloyalty  to  her,  no,"  said  the  mother. 

"  Besides,  Lilian  understood  !  " 

"  That  is  the  incredible  feature  of  the  whole 
relationship,  Monica.  You  undermine  people's 
principles.  Something  in  you  makes  them 
condone  what  they  ought  to  condemn." 

"  In  him,  in  him  !  "  Monica  exclaimed  jubi- 
lantly. "  Lilian  loved  him." 

"  Personal  charm  cannot  make  wrong  right," 
the  mother  declared  stoutly. 

"  But  you  love  him  too.  You  cannot  help 
it,"  persisted  Monica,  with  a  smile  of  triumph. 
"  You  trust  him." 

"  Oh,  he  is  not  ill  looking  —  I  grant  you, 
not  unsympathetic  —  not  dull  —  " 

"Ah,  mamma!  "  pleaded  Monica  with  love- 
light  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  like  him.  In  a  certain  sense  I  do 
trust  him,"  the  mother  rejoined  gravely. 
"  My  gnawing  anxiety  might  be  a  degree 
worse  if,  in  addition  to  everything  else,  I  had 
to  think  him  a  scoundrel.  I  admit  he  is  lov- 
able, handsome,  a  fine,  tall,  strong,  young 
fellow,  fascinating,  if  you  will,  to  girls  from 


64  The  Garden  of  Eden 

the  sadness  of  his  romantic  story.  And  I  am 
sorry  for  him,  exceedingly  sorry.  It  is  all  very 
deplorable  at  his  age." 

She  spoke  with  gentle  emphasis  and  paused, 
desiring  to  make  her  fine  restraint  and  justice 
obvious  to  Monica,  who  was  smiling  brilliantly. 

"  I  will  go  farther.  I  will  admit  that  once 
when  I  saw  you  two  standing  together  in  this 
room  I  even  thought,  if  he  were  a  free  man, 
how  I  would  welcome  him.  Can  I  say  more? 
It  is  wrong  indeed  to  say  as  much.  But  he  is 
not  a  free  man.  He  has  made  his  bed  and  he 
must  lie  on  it.  And  if  he  were  a  God,"  she 
broke  out  impetuously,  "  I  should  not  thank 
him  for  what  he  has  done  to  you,  to  us.  For 
it  is  a  grievous  wrong.  Perhaps  he  could  not 
help  loving  you.  I  do  not  know.  There 's 
much  a  man  can  help  if  he  will.  But  he  need 
not  have  let  you  love  him.  He  need  not  have 
come  so  dangerously  far  into  your  fair  life." 

"Ah  when,  in  what,  was  he  ever  at  fault 
toward  me  ?  Fate  sent  him." 

"  Oh  yes  !  Fate  !  Fate  is  the  scapegoat  for 
all  human  weakness  and  guilt !  " 

"  Mother,  I  beg  you  to  remember  — "  said 
Monica,  solemn,  passionate,  warning. 

"  I  remember  well.  I  remember  nothing 
else,"  returned  her  mother  grimly. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  65 

"  For  myself  I  make  no  excuse,"  Monica 
continued.  "  What  is  come  was  to  come.  I 
will  not  say  it  might  not  have  burst  upon  me 
in  a  drawing-room  amid  people  and  laughter 
and  lightness,  for  true  love  may  prevail  even 
there.  I  will  not  say  what  I  might  have  done 
had  I  found  myself  creating  misery  in  a  home, 
consciously  interposing  between  man  and  wife, 
drawing  off  tenderness  from  its  rightful  chan- 
nel. I  hope,  had  it  been  thus,  I  should  not 
have  proved  ungenerous.  But  how  shall 
I  dare  to  arrogate  strength  —  having  known 
Keith?  For — having  known  Keith  —  never 
while  I  live  can  I  condemn  any  woman  for 
anything  she  may  do  for  love's  sake." 

Her  mother  groaned  aloud  as  if  in  intoler- 
able physical  pain. 

"  But  it  was  not  thus.  There  was  no  home. 
There  was  no  tenderness.  I  intruded  upon  no 
intimacy,  came  between  no  two  souls.  I  saw 
but  one,  a  strong  lonely  man,  free  as  air,  ex- 
cept in  name.  In  sorrow  and  bitterness  we 
two  found  each  other.  Mother,  it  is  fair  to 
remember !  " 

"  I  remember.     Never  fear." 

"Did  he  seek  me?  He  avoided  me.  Was 
he  not  innocent,  remote  from  us?  You  fell 
and  broke  your  arm.  Why  was  Dr.  Irwin 
5 


66  The  Garden  of  Eden 

out  of  town  in  consultation?  Could  Keith 
help  it  that  they  brought  him  to  you?  Was 
he,  was  I,  to  blame  that  when  he  crossed 
the  threshold  we  looked,  wondering,  in  each 
other's  eyes  —  and  it  was  then,  then — that 
he  came  into  my  life  — " 

"  You  are  to  blame.  You  and  he,  for  loving 
when  loving  is  sin." 

"  Oh,  mother  dear !  The  hard  word.  Can 
any  loving  that  ever  was  be  sin?  " 

"  Monica!  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  merely  ask,"  the  girl 
said  softly. 

"  A  married  man !  Once  you  would  have 
had  only  horror  at  the  thought." 

"  I  know,  dear.     But  his  coming  —  " 

"  Blinded  you,  my  poor  erring  child." 

"  No,  no,"  she  exclaimed  with  a  rapt  smile, 
"  no,  mother  darling.  It  was  sudden,  wonder- 
ful—  but  it  was  mighty,  and  —  I  saw!  It  was 
as  if  we  two  had  been  separated  and  refound 
each  other.  As  we  worked  over  you,  he  giv- 
ing his  quiet  orders,  I  obeying,  I  hardly 
needed  words :  I  obeyed  his  grave  eyes :  I 
knew  them.  It  was  as  if  we  had  been  like 
that,  we  three,  ages  upon  ages  ago." 

"  Oh  yes,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Randolph  with  ex- 
citement, "  I  saw  it,  felt  it  all.  I  admit  there 


The  Garden  of  Eden  67 

was  a  strange  magnetism  in  the  air  that  night. 
Despite  pain  and  chloroform  I  was  not  too 
dull  to  perceive  it  thrilling  your  faces,  your 
low  voices,  your  ministering  hands,  but  my 
girl  should  have  resisted  it,  because  it  was 
evil." 

"  Never  evil,  mother,  and  no  more  to  be 
resisted  than  birth  or  death !  But  when  I  was 
alone  I  fought  hard.  All  night  long  I  wrestled 
with  my  angel.  My  traditions  preached  one 
thing,  life  revealed  another.  I  thought — but 
quite  remorselessly,  with  my  coolest  brain,  you 
know  —  I  was  a  lost  soul,  wicked  like  all  I 
had  been  taught  to  loathe.  I  saw  myself 
walking  the  streets  like  poor  Hester  Prynne 
with  a  scarlet  letter  on  my  breast.  I  tried  to 
abhor  myself.  Through  the  long  hours  the 
old  and  the  new  struggled  for  victory.  And 
the  strange  thing  was,  while  my  head  was  pro- 
claiming This  is  sin —  This  is  sin  !  my  heart 
held  itself  aloof,  did  not  feel  sinful,  feared  not 
at  all,  trembled  with  joy  recalling  the  face  of 
the  man.  As  if  an  idle  voice  called  empty 
words  unheeded  from  a  frozen  mountain  peak, 
while  in  the  low,  warm  valley  all  was  joy.  Yet 
something  in  me  was  appalled  that  I  could 
not  realize  my  wickedness  and  feel  as  I 
had  been  taught  to  feel.  Finally  out  of  the 


68  The  Garden  of  Eden 

tumult  I  extracted  this  idea:  either  I  am 
depraved,  or  I  am  good.  If  I  was  good  yes- 
terday, as  all  the  world  and  I  myself  thought, 
then  what  I  did  not  seek,  what  burst  upon  me 
like  a  great  — 

"  Disaster !  " 

"  Like  a  great  glory  cannot  make  me  in 
myself  another  person,  cannot  in  itself  be  a 
crime.  So  gradually  it  was  dawn  before  all 
grew  clear  to  me — I  reconciled  the  conflict- 
ing head  and  heart.  Since  then  I  have  never 
wavered  an  instant.  I  do  not  defend  every- 
thing I  have  done.  I  know  I  am  headstrong 

—  impetuous  —  and    selfish  —  yes,    selfish.      I 
know  I  make  your  heart  ache,  mother.     But 
what  is  in  my  soul  for  him,  that  is  good,  that 
is  innocent.     I  would  go  to  the  stake  for  it. 
The  world  may  judge  as  it  will.     I  will  never 
call  it  a  sin.     God  who  sent  it  knows  it  is  no 
sin,  but  good  —  good  to  the  core  !  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  retorted  Mrs.  Randolph,  strongly 
moved,  condemning  yet  reluctantly  sympa- 
thizing. "  You  were  always  a  little  Job.  Like 
him  you  cry,  '  I  will  not  remove  my  integrity 
from  me.'  But  even  if  all  you  say  were  true 

—  and  it  is  not  true,  Monica  —  you  and  Keith 
Lowell  are   human   precisely   like    everybody 
else :  there  is  no  pellucid  heavenly  atmosphere 


The  Garden  of  Eden  69 

enveloping  you  and  no  glory:  but  if  it  were 
true,  what  then?  How  is  it  to  end?  This,  if 
you  please,  we  will  discuss  plainly,  not  poeti- 
cally. The  quasi-legitimation  of  your  inti- 
macy with  Dr.  Lowell  is  removed  by  Lilian's 
death.  I,  your  mother,  condemn  and  oppose 
your  theories  and  your  conduct.  I  will  not 
lend  my  protection  or  my  house  to  an  im- 
moral relationship.  And  although  you  neither 
respect  my  opinions  nor  consider  my  pain  —  " 

"  Mother !  " 

"  I  believe  you  still  love  me  well  enough  — 

"  Ah  mother  !  " 

"  To  indicate  your  course  frankly.  There- 
fore I  ask  you,  Monica,  is  it  your  intention  to 
continue  these  disreputable  clandestine  inter- 
views with  a  married  man?  Ah,  why  writhe 
under  the  words  if  the  facts  are  so  immaculate 
as  you  pretend  !  I  repeat,  these  disreputable 
clandestine  meetings  —  which  will  lead  you 
and  me  and  him  to  utter  misery  — " 

Monica  was  pale  to  the  lips,  for  with  her 
mother  pleaded  another  voice,  and  the  Thought 
which  had  slumbered  began  to  stir. 

"  Yes,  him  too,  Monica  !  There  can  be  no 
doubt  of  that.  You  will  ruin  him  altogether. 
He  had  gathered  up  the  fragments  of  his 
broken  life  and  was  seeking  manfully  to  go  on 


yo  The  Garden  of  Eden 

—  until  he  met  you.  You  will  wreck  him  in 
the  best  that  he  has  left,  his  profession,  his 
usefulness,  his  peace  of  mind,  his  last  chance 
of  happiness." 

Once  more  Monica  rallied. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  rainy  summer 
night,  more  than  a  year  ago,  when  you  were 
at  your  Club  and  I  came  home  from  Helen's 
early  and  alone?  I  met  him.  It  was  pure 
accident.  He  turned  without  one  word.  He 
slipped  my  arm  in  his.  We  walked  on,  against 
wind  and  rain,  with  fast,  light,  long  step.  We 
were  so  glad  we  seemed  to  tread  on  air.  We 
met  almost  no  one.  At  every  gas  lamp  he 
lowered  his  umbrella.  We  went  straight  out 
to  the  end  of  the  street  beyond  the  houses. 
There  were  building  materials  —  stone,  a  great 
irregular  pile  of  planks.  The  upper  ones  pro- 
jected. He  found  a  place  just  large  enough. 
There  we  sat  sheltered,  the  rain  pattering  on 
the  wood  and  all  around.  We  were  as  merry 
as  two  runaway  schoolboys,  whispered  absurd 
jests  mysteriously  and  laughed  under  our 
breath,  as  if  we  feared  to  wake  some  one. 
But  not  a  soul  was  near.  He  told  me  stories 
of  his  boyhood  and  of  his  student  life  abroad. 
Oh  the  smell  of  the  moist  earth  —  the  smell  of 
the  pine  —  the  rain  dripping  heavily  —  the 


The  Garden  of  Eden  7 1 

world  forgotten  —  he  —  very  near  !  Mother, 
was  that  iniquitous?" 

From  the  depths  of  the  great  loving  mother 
heart  compassion  and  tenderness  shot  up  with 
force  and  gleamed  and  wavered  across  the  fair 
troubled  face  :  nay,  more :  the  unwilling  tribute 
of  subtle  comprehension  and  dangerous  sym- 
pathy the  woman  was  rendering  to  the  woman. 
Hence,  to  the  girl's  piteous  appeal  Mrs.  Ran- 
dolph replied  with  aggressive  coolness : 

"  Monica,  what  if  all  the  girls  of  your  set 
should  follow  your  example  and  each  sit  on  a 
pile  of  planks  in  the  rain  on  terms  of  closest 
intimacy  with  a  married  man?  Would  you 
consider  this  a  proof  of  a  fine  moral  sense  in 
the  community?" 

"  Quite  as  much  so  at  least,"  retorted  Monica 
hotly,  "  as  when  Kitty  says,  '  I  cannot  bear 
him  to  touch  me,  and  when  he  laughs  I  simply 
hate  him.  But  I  cheer  myself  on  with  the 
thought  of  his  beautiful  bank  account.' " 

"  Kitty  is  a  silly  little  thing,  and  chatters 
without  rhyme  or  reason :  which  by  no  means 
proves  that,  once  married,  she  will  not  be  a 
happy  and  affectionate  wife.  But  in  any  event 
I  think  you,  Monica,  have  forfeited  your  right 
to  criticise  Kitty's  conduct." 

Monica  clutched  at  a  straw. 


72  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  You  say  once  married,  mamma.  Is  that 
a  charm  —  once  married?  Look  at  the  mar- 
ried ones.  Take  every  family  on  this  street. 
Look  at  their  bored  faces  when  they  are  walk- 
ing together.  Is  it  moral  to  live  together 
under  one  roof  but  worlds  apart  in  sentiment? 
To  loathe  their  chains,  quarrel,  and  yet,  merely 
because  they  mistook  their  sentiments  twenty 
years  ago,  to  continue  the  sordid,  cowardly, 
hypocritical  relationship  —  and  without  love 
bring  children  into  the  world.  Except  Pater 
and  Lilian  I  never  knew  a  happy  marriage." 

"  Mature  people,"  returned  Mrs.  Randolph 
calmly,  "  have  many  cares  and  perplexities. 
Life  brings  differences  of  opinion  and  often 
builds  a  crust  round  the  heart.  But  below  it 
a  man  and  his  wife  may  love  each  other  very 
truly  all  the  same  —  without  adventures  or 
rhapsodies.  But,"  — facing  Monica  with  sud- 
den intensity  of  expression,  "  if,  as  you  assert, 
marriage  is  a  failure,  how  do  you  account  for 
it?" 

"  Because  people  do  not  really  love,"  an- 
swered the  girl  innocently. 

"  Ah,  no,  no  ! "  cried  the  mother  with  cool 
intelligence  pushing  her  advantage,  "  because 
they  change,  Monica.  The  most  of  our  neigh- 
bors that  seem  to  you  to-day  so  prosaic,  so 


The  Garden  of  Eden  73 

unsatisfied  and  unsatisfying,  have  had  their 
brief  bright  season  of  romantic  love.  But 
ideals  change  —  theirs,  yours  and  mine.  Sen- 
timents, even  religion,  you  yourself  do  not 
believe  what  you  believed  ten,  nay,  five  years 
ago.  You,  too,  change,  you  see.  You,  too, 
must  change.  The  great  ardor  and  exaltation 
—  that  never  lasts.  It  is  not  meant  it  should. 
And  you  are  so  thoughtful,  so  reasonable, 
Monica,  this  must  teach  you,  must  convince 
you  incontrovertibly  that  one  cannot  sacrifice 
everything  —  name  —  fame  —  friends  —  hap- 
piness —  to  that  fleeting  mirage,  an  illicit 
love. 

"Yes,  illicit,"  she  repeated  firmly,  in  reply 
to  Monica's  mute  protest.  "  What  God  has 
joined  together,  let  no  man  put  asunder.  That 
is  my  creed.  You  look  at  me  with  question- 
ing eyes  —  but  the  divorce  was  wrong.  I  have 
known  that  for  years.  I  ought  to  have  borne 
everything  without  complaint.  Marriage,  any 
marriage,  the  most  thoughtless,  the  most  ill- 
matched  and  unhappy  is  a  promise  before 
God.  No  one  can  break  that  promise  with 
impunity.  Whoever  reaches  out  with  perverse, 
greedy  hand  to  grasp  what  has  been  sacredly 
sealed  to  a  fellow  creature,  does  a  deed  ac- 
cursed of  God  and  man." 


74  The  Garden  of  Eden 

In  the  soft,  womanly  presence  of  the  mother 
battling  with  her  beloved  child  for  that  child's 
weal  —  two  mighty  foes  in  truth  in  the  field, 
mother  love  and  the  love  of  man  and  woman 
—  a  stern  intrepid  Hebrew  strain  appeared,  a 
touch  of  the  high  austerity  of  some  old  Puritan 
ancestor. 

"  Monica,  in  spite  of  your  modern  notions,  I 
know  you  still  believe  in  Christ." 

"  In  the  divine  element  in  Christ  —  and  in 
us  all,"  the  girl  murmured. 

"  Christ  said :  Whoso  looketh  on  a  woman 
to  lust  after  her  hath  committed  adultery  with 
her  already  in  his  heart." 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother,"  cried  Monica  despe- 
rately, moving  her  head  slowly  from  side  to 
side  —  vaguely  seeking  help  —  "  be  merciful, 
it  is  all  so  terrible." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  Mrs. 
Randolph  leaned  back  in  silence.  There  was 
a  brief  armistice.  Both  were  weary  and  op- 
pressed. Each  dreaded  to  go  on.  Suddenly 
Monica  said  low,  as  if  thinking  aloud : 

"  Perhaps  Christ  never  said  it.  Or  at  least 
perhaps  he  never  said  it  quite  like  that.  They 
are  always  disputing  about  translations.  And 
if  he  did  —  if  he  did  —  " 

"Well?" 


The  Garden  of  Eden  75 

"  Perhaps  he  meant  it  otherwise  —  for  is  it 
true?  Is  there  no  difference  between  resisting 
temptation  and  yielding  to  it?  If  a  man  wants 
to  strike  a  murderous  blow  and  restrains  him- 
self has  he  committed  murder  in  his  heart? 
But  his  heart  has  saved  a  life.  If  a  hungry 
man  wants  to  steal  and  does  not,  is  he  a  thief? 
I  should  think  him  a  very  honest  man.  It 
must  be  a  false  translation,  mamma.  But 
how  foolish  I  am  to  mind  words,  knowing 
Keith !  " 

Her  mother  made  a  grave  deprecating  ges- 
ture and  remained  silent.  For  the  plenary 
inspiration  of  the  Bible  she  was  ever  ready  to 
break  a  lance,  but  not  this  night. 

"  It  is  all  so  futile,  mamma  dear,"  Monica 
went  on,  deadly  pale  and  with  effort.  "  Let 
us  not  argue  any  more,  you  and  I.  I  cannot 
change  you.  You  cannot  change  me  —  at 
least,  not  in  these  things.  But  if  you  would 
not  speak  of  Keith  as  if  he  were  a  criminal 
when  he  has  been  all  nobleness  from  first  to 
last,  and  if  you  would  not  require  me  to  think 
what  I  cannot  think,  if  you  will  simply  tell  me 
what  you  believe  would  help  us  —  us  three  — 
how  you  have  planned  my  future  —  I  will  listen, 
I  will  try  to  be  reasonable." 

"  Recall  Major  Lynton." 


j6  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  Because  I  love  one  man,  marry  another?  " 

"  Because  one  man  exerts  a  perilous  fasci- 
nation over  you,  seek  refuge  in  the  devotion 
of  another,  —  one  of  the  best  of  men." 

"  He  would  not  want  me  if  he  knew." 

"  He  does  know  approximately,  and  he  does 
want  you.  He  is  far  too  much  a  man  of  the 
world  not  to  make  allowances  for  a  girl's 
romance." 

"  I  cannot,  mother,"  said  Monica  drearily, 
for  the  Thought  was  facing  her,  large  and 
ominous. 

"  Monica,  darling  Monica,  for  my  sake  !  I 
have  never  forced  you  in  any  inclination  what- 
ever, though  so  many  good  men  have  come 
and  have  been  sent  away,  and  I  have  won- 
dered that  you  could  be  so  cold." 

"  I  am  sorry,  dear.     I  could  not  help  it." 

"  Men  of  intellect,  of  wealth  and  high  posi- 
tion, who  could  give  you  all  you  could  wish  — 
all  you  deserve  —  " 

"  I  did  not  love  them,  mother." 

"  There  are  several  who  would  return  with 
but  half  a  word  from  you,  and  you  would  be 
safe  and  I  at  peace.  Is  there  not  one  whom 
you  like?  " 

"  Not  one  whom  I  love." 

"  No    girl    in   town   except  yourself  would 


The  Garden  of  Eden  77 

refuse  Major    Lynton.     His   distinction  —  his 
charm —  his  great  goodness  of  heart —  " 

"  Yes,  yes.  He  is  nice,  I  know,  but  even 
then  it  would  have  been  detestable  to  marry 
him  merely  out  of  a  prudent  regard  for  my 
future  interests  —  and  now,  it  would  be  black- 
est crime — Oh,"  she  cried,  flaming  up  sud- 
denly, "  why  must  we  women  be  punished  for 
what  is  best  in  us?  And  what  is  any  love 
worth  that  counts  cost  and  faints  when  things 
are  hard,  when  they  exclude  comfort,  social 
approval,  even  possession  —  marriage  —  and 
the  beloved  companionship !  Surely  if  love 
be  pure,  it  is  self-abandonment." 

"  Self-abandonment,"  returned  the  mother 
impressively,  "  it  is  a  noble  word.  But  why 
must  it  always  mean  following  one's  instincts 
in  all  that  is  pleasurable  and  seductive?  Why 
should  there  not  be  self-abandonment  in  duty 
—  plain  duty?  " 

Monica  trembled,  for  the  Thought  over- 
shadowed her.  Mother  and  child  stared  com- 
fortless at  each  other. 

"  Can  you  think  of  no  other  way  but  Major 
Lynton?  "  Monica  asked  feebly. 

"  None  —  unless  —  unless  I  beg  Dr.  Lowell 
to  leave  town.  He  would  not  refuse  me," 
she  added  with  dignity,  "  but  —  "  she  hesitated 


7  8  The  Garden  of  Eden 

—  troubled,  solicitous,  considering  his  inter- 
ests in  her  heart,  fond  of  the  man. 

Monica  thanked  her  with  a  mute  wan  smile. 
The  girl  was  exhausted,  almost  vanquished, 
but  —  oh  the  wonder!  —  her  hope,  —  poor 
bruished,  crushed,  brave  thing! — was  breath- 
ing still. 

Again  a  long  silence  while  their  troubled 
spirits,  like  the  shade  of  Sisyphus,  worked  on 
unceasingly  and  rolled  up  in  the  gloom  the 
huge  ever-rebounding  stone. 

The  mother-love  girded  itself  for  its  last 
charge.  Clear  and  insistent  sounded  its  open- 
ing bugle-note. 

"  Monica,  have  I  been  a  good  mother  to 
you?" 

Mournful  and  sweet  was  the  answer : 

"Never  was  one  so  dear — so  devoted  — 
so  selfless  —  " 

"  Then  give  up  this  infatuation,  which  is 
breaking  my  heart.  Give  it  up  and  let  us  be 
at  peace  again,  as  we  were  before  he  came. 
I  tremble  every  instant  for  you,  my  child,  and 
I  suffer  from  the  struggle  between  us.  My 
own  dear  daughter,  were  we  two  ever  meant 
to  quarrel?  And  there  are  other  ways  that  I 
suffer  —  Monica  you  know  I  have  never  liked 
to  speak  much  to  you  of  your  father.  It  did 


The  Garden  of  Eden  79 

not  seem  right,  but  now  it  is  time.  You  have 
heard  how  we  met,  but  not  all.  I  was  seven- 
teen, he,  a  fiery  wooer.  Your  grandfather 
would  have  nothing  to  say  to  him,  forbade 
him  the  house  and  told  me  never  to  speak 
to  the  dissolute  scamp.  Of  course  it  is  not 
proper  a  very  young  girl  should  know  what 
dissolute  means,  but  had  I  suspected,  much 
agony  might  have  been  spared  me.  Then  he 
stood  under  my  window,  and  made  melan- 
choly black  eyes  at  me  wherever  I  went,  and 
wrote  letters  threatening  to  blow  his  brains 
out.  They  never  blow  their  brains  out, 
Monica.  But  I  was  an  idiot  and  believed 
him.  I  was  romantic  like  you,  dear,  I  fear  it 
is  in  the  blood.  He  was  handsome  and  bold, 
and  your  grandfather's  frostiness  piqued  him 
and  roused  his  obstinacy.  And  I  was  fascin- 
ated, helpless,  and  flattered  to  the  melting 
point,  for  all  my  girl  friends  knew  I  had  a 
tall  lover  with  a  sweeping  moustache.  My 
mother  was  dear  and  good,  but  rather  distant 
with  her  children.  We  never  thought  of  con- 
fiding in  her.  I  was  freer  with  my  father; 
his  pet  child,  and  it  nearly  broke  his  heart 
that  I  made  a  runaway  match  and  brought 
disgrace  upon  our  good  old  name.  And  if 
you  ask  me,  Monica,  this  night,  why  I  did  him 


8o  The  Garden  of  Eden 

and  us  all  that  wrong,  I  can  only  say,  I  do 
not  know,  I  was  vain,  bewildered,  dazzled,  in 
a  fever  of  excitement,  —  but  I  never  loved 
the  man.  A  few  weeks,  a  few  days  indeed, 
were  sufficient  to  reveal  to  me  what  he  was  — 
I  will  not  speak  hard  words  of  him  to  you. 
Of  what  use?  That  time  is  so  far  away  and 
he  is  so  long  dead.  There  is  no  more  hard- 
ness in  my  heart  toward  him.  But  it  was  a 
time  of  misery  and  shame.  Your  grandfather 
came  and  took  me  home.  The  divorce  fol- 
lowed. But  that  should  never  have  been.  I 
felt  so  outraged  I  demanded  my  freedom,  but 
I  was  wrong.  I  see  it  now  clearly.  After  my 
sin  I  should  have  borne  my  punishment  with 
patience." 

"  A  child  of  seventeen  ! "  said  Monica, 
tenderly,  incredulously. 

"  I  was  old  enough  to  be  honorable  and  to 
do  my  duty.  Yet  I  ran  away  disgracefully. 
I  was  old  enough  to  know  that  marriage  is 
sacred,  yet  merely  because  I  was  wretched 
and  insulted,  I  escaped  from  my  bond.  I 
did  all  these  things.  But  I  have  been  pun- 
ished. I  have  suffered.  There  is  always  a 
stigma  attached  to  a  woman  divorced." 

"  But  that  is  cruel  —  barbarous.  There  is 
no  sense  in  that,"  protested  Monica. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  8 1 

"  It  is  a  fact,  nevertheless.  Some  have  not 
scrupled  to  let  me  feel  this.  Of  course  your 
grandfather's  name  —  our  position  was  too 
secure  to  be  shaken,  yet  my  past  lives  on  like 
an  open  wound  and  I  quiver  when  it  is 
touched.  So  it  has  been  all  these  years." 

"  Dearest  mamma !  "  sighed  Monica. 

"  But  I  had  you,  only  you,  and  I  lived  for 
you.  You  were  my  blessing,  my  comfort  for 
all  I  had  forfeited  and  foregone.  For  other 
men  came,  Monica,  and  —  one  beloved  friend 
revealed  to  me  my  lost  Paradise  —  it  was 
bitter  —  but  in  the  sight  of  God  I  was  a 
married  woman  still.  He  helped  me  to  resist 
—  to  endure  —  to  stand  alone,  yet  not  alone. 
For  you  were  with  me.  Until  —  two  years 
ago  —  you  never  gave  me  an  hour's  pain, 
except  indeed  when  you  were  little  —  my 
haunting  fear  that  you  would  be  taken  from 
me  in  punishment  for  my  sins." 

"  Oh,  mamma,  —  my  poor  little  mamma  — 
so  good,  so  innocent  —  so  dear !  " 

"But  you  were  always  strong  and  happy, 
and  as  the  years  went  by  I  began  to  think 
God  had  forgiven  me.  I  was  so  proud,  so 
sure  of  you.  You  seemed  of  yourself  to  do 
what  was  wise  and  right.  Petty  things  that 
other  girls  did  had  no  chance  with  you.  I  was 
6 


82  The  Garden  of  Eden 

proud  of  you  as  every  mother  is  for  a  thou- 
sand things,  for  outward  gifts  and  graces,  but 
proudest  of  your  fearless  candor  —  your  in- 
tegrity. Ah,  I  was  proud  of  you  altogether, 
my  Monica !  " 

Under  the  hot  lashing  of  this  praise  Monica 
was  cringing  like  a  convict. 

"With  men  you  were  so  cool  and  serene. 
I  wondered  much.  Often,  indeed,  I  was  dis- 
appointed. Yet  I  liked  you  to  be  fastidious, 
a  little  haughty,  not  eager  like  a  vulgar  girl 
—  not  wax  like  your  poor  foolish  mother. 
Doubtless  your  constant  intercourse  with  the 
Trevors  helped  to  make  you  independent. 
They  have  been  loving  friends.  I  will  not  say 
one  word  too  much.  But  their  ideas,  which 
you  call  modern  and  liberal,  and  I  call  mis- 
taken—  well —  sometimes  I  have  thought  you 
might  be  better  off  without  them.  Yet  I  did 
not  interfere.  You  found  happiness  in  that 
house.  Your  happiness  was  all  I  craved  — 
even  in  the  many,  many  hours  you  spent  with 
Lilian." 

In  Monica's  face  was  a  sudden  wondering 
recognition  of  a  fact  never  before  remotely 
suspected,  never  even  faintly  revealed  by  the 
mother. 

"I    thought,"    continued    Mrs.    Randolph, 


The  Garden  of  Eden  83 

"  some  happy  day  in  her  own  good  time  my 
dear  daughter  will  marry  and  wipe  away  the 
stain  of  her  mother's  folly  and  make  all  fair 
again,  and  I  waited  and  was  patient,  and  this 
was  the  hope  of  my  life. 

"  Where  is  that  hope  to-day?  It  lies  low  in 
the  dust.  There  is  no  more  gladness  in  my 
heart,  no  more  security.  Where  I  was  once 
so  proud,  I  am  bitterly  ashamed.  Be  sure  thy 
sin  will  find  thee  ont.  Mine  is  finding  me  out 
in  what  is  more  precious  than  life,  my  child's 
honor.  God  is  visiting  the  sins  of  the  fathers 
upon  the  children." 

Monica  had  crept  to  her  mother's  feet. 
Crouching,  broken,  shuddering,  she  yet  raised 
her  hand  in  protest. 

"  No  sin  !  "  she  moaned,  "  no  sin  !  Not 
in  you.  Not  in  me." 

But  the  mother's  solemn  voice  went  on  un- 
heeding: 

"  The  sin  of  my  youth  is  finding  me  out. 
My  ingratitude,  my  treachery,  my  light- 
mindedness,  my  cruelty  to  my  own  people. 
And  the  sins  of  a  father  whose  hot  blood  and 
cold,  shallow  soul  wrecked  scores  of  women's 
lives  —  ah,  Monica,"  she  cried  passionately, 
"  that  is  my  most  secret  thought !  Now  my 
heart  lies  bare  before  you.  In  the  long,  lonely 


84  The  Garden  of  Eden 

nights  while  you  have  watched  with  your 
dying  friend,  I  have  been  on  my  knees  wrest- 
ling in  prayer.  Not  this,  O  Lord,  I  have 
prayed,  not  this.  Let  the  curse  fall  as  it  will, 
but  spare  my  child.  Do  not  punish  me  in 
her.  Keep  her  soul  pure.  Keep  her  life 
white." 

Close  against  her  mother's  knee,  Monica's 
drawn,  haggard  face  was  pressed.  Dumb, 
half  inanimate,  strangely  confused  she  lay,  but 
one  thing  she  knew  for  all  time,  the  Thought 
was  not  her  foe  —  the  Thought  was  her  friend 
from  the  beginning.  On  her  bowed  head  she 
now  felt  her  mother's  hands,  covering  her  like 
strong,  soft  wings. 

"  I  beg  you,  Monica,  now  that  you  know 
all,  I  beg  you  in  agony,  give  up  this  love, 
give  up  this  man.  It  is  a  glamour.  Gain  time 
and  you  will  see.  But  whether  you  believe 
that  or  not,  give  him  up  for  your  mother's 
sake  —  for  I  die  daily  in  my  remorse,  in  my 
horrible,  horrible  fear.  And  rather  than  more 
harm  than  shame  should  come  to  you,  I 
would  see  you  dead  here  at  my  feet." 

The  solemn  voice  ceased.  But  Monica 
heard  it  still. 

"  I  would  rather  see  you  dead,"  the  man's 
throbbing  voice  was  saying  in  the  arbor,  and 


The  Garden  of  Eden  85 

she  felt  his  arms  holding  her  fast,  the  troubled 
caress  of  breath,  lips,  and  tears  upon  her 
face,  and  heard  the  rattling  shiver  along  the 
vines,  or  was  it  in  her  heart?  Which  voice 
had  spoken  last  she  hardly  knew,  for  both 
were  pleading  ceaselessly  the  same  strain  of 
dread  and  self-reproach  and  anguish —  mother 
and  lover,  lover  and  mother — in  woeful  uni- 
son. She  pitied  them  so,  ah  God,  how  she 
pitied  them!  — stronger  than  her  life  was  her 
passionate  pity  for  those  two  most  dear,  most 
sorrowful  ones  breaking  their  poor  hearts  over 
her.  She  would  help  them,  of  course.  She 
was  the  only  one  who  could  help.  She  would 
fain  tell  them  this  for  their  comfort.  But 
something  in  her  had  stopped  or  died  and 
left  a  strangeness  and  a  stillness,  and  speech 
and  motion  seemed  remote,  unessential  things. 

"  You  shall  not  suffer  so,"  she  said  at  last. 

Did  she  speak,  or  the  Thought? 

"  Monica?" 

"  I  will  go  away." 

Surely  it  was  the  Thought  that  spoke. 

"  Monica !  " 

Not  asking  or  caring  what  these  words, 
more  breathed  than  spoken,  might  mean, 
knowing  only  the  cause  was  won,  relief  un- 
speakable and  newborn  hope  coursing  mightily 


86  The  Garden  of  Eden 

through  her,  the  mother  lovingly  lifted  the 
drooping  head  up  on  her  knee.  But  when  she 
saw  that  face,  the  words  of  thankfulness  died 
upon  her  lips,  and  swiftly  she  stooped  and 
gathered  her  stricken  child  to  her  heart. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  87 


IV 


HANS  NlLSSEN  —  or  Nils  Hanssen  —  opened 
the  port-hole.  Brawny,  massive,  grasping 
the  port-lid  with  powerful  fist,  he  warily 
scanned  the  angry  blackness  of  night  and 
ocean.  But  instinct  and  the  ship's  lurch 
rather  than  his  keen  eyes  told  him  when  to 
slam  the  lid  against  the  onslaught  of  the  next 
wave.  Sometimes  he  slammed  it  a  second 
too  late,  and  muttered  something  strong,  in 
Danish. 

The  stream  of  cold  pure  air  playing  de- 
liciously  about  Monica's  hot  head  was  usually 
her  first  intimation  of  his  presence.  Among 
the  myriad  noises  emitted  in  pain  and  wrath 
by  that  creaking,  crunching,  laboring  ship, 
the  steward  at  her  door,  his  step  passed  unob- 
served; and  in  the  tumultuous  dimness  of  her 
stateroom,  where  innocent  raiment  swung  like 
malefactors  from  the  gibbet,  one  apparition 
more  or  less  was  of  no  moment,  and  she 
rarely  perceived  the  broadbacked  phantom  at 
the  port-hole  until  his  philanthropic  mission 
was  accomplished. 


88  The  Garden  of  Eden 

But  many  times,  by  night  and  day,  through 
that  rough  weather,  she  had  cause  to  bless 
his  gentle  thought  of  her  and  his  silent  minis- 
tration. Indifferent  to  the  storm,  unmindful 
of  general  discomfort,  persuaded  as  she 
knocked  about  her  berth,  between  sleeping 
and  waking  with  open  apathetic  eyes,  that  so 
far  as  she  personally  was  concerned  it  would 
be  well  should  the  steamer  never  arrive  in 
port,  she  nevertheless  most  inconsequently 
craved  that  life-giving  breath.  In  short,  not 
averse  to  drowning,  she  yet  objected  strongly 
to  the  smells  and  bad  air  pervading  her  swim- 
ming prison-house,  where  for  days  waves  had 
been  washing  the  decks,  everything  closed 
tight,  and  passengers,  whenever  they  ventured 
to  show  their  pallid  inquiring  countenances 
above  board,  curtly  ordered  below.  Revived 
once  more  by  the  blessed  draught,  she  would 
vaguely  wonder  that,  dead  to  the  world  as  she 
now  was,  she  could  still  desire  anything  so 
violently.  Breathing,  she  reflected  listlessly, 
being  a  mere  bodily  function,  there  seemed  a 
certain  baseness  in  her  excessive  agitation 
upon  this  subject.  But  her  good  lungs,  with 
that  startling  obtuseness  which  our  corporeal 
adjuncts  often  manifest  toward  our  mental 
attitude,  persisted  in  their  unseemly  rebel- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  89 

lion  against  fetid  air  and  suffocation.  When- 
ever their  clamor  became  almost  unendurable, 
Hans  Nilssen  —  or  Nils  Hanssen  —  stole  in 
and  opened  the  port-hole.  Neither  the  in- 
cidental deluge  nor  the  dash  of  vigorous 
Danish  chagrin  dismayed  her.  What,  in- 
deed, was  feeble  human  profanity  amid  the 
vast  imprecations  of  the  ship? 

Hanssen  —  or  Nilssen  —  was  not,  perhaps, 
specially  detailed  to  succor  errant  damsels 
thus  assiduously,  but  rather  to  meet,  so  far 
as  was  humanly  possible,  the  more  or  less 
reasonable  demands  of  passengers  of  the 
gruffer  sex.  As  the  ladies  in  that  quarter, 
however,  were  for  the  most  part  imploring  the 
stewardess  to  throw  them  overboard,  she  did 
not  deign  to  listen  to  less  dramatic  requests. 
So  Hans  —  or  Nils  —  who  had  a  blonde  sweet- 
heart in  Malmo,  and  an  incredible  softness  in 
his  big  heart  toward  all  her  like,  became 
Monica's  self-appointed  henchman. 

He  followed  her  with  doglike  eyes,  hovered 
about  unobtrusively  when  she  moved  from 
place  to  place,  invented  pretexts  for  serving 
her  —  things  in  her  stateroom  required,  it 
seemed,  incessant  polishing,  fresher  than 
fresh"  glasses  had  to  be  supplied.  When  she 
would  sometimes  by  day  take  refuge  in  her 


90  The  Garden  of  Eden 

berth  —  the  output  of  strength  in  bracing  and 
clinging  there  being  rather  less  than  in  the 
endeavor  to  hold  herself  upright  —  and  would 
stare  before  her  hour  after  hour,  wanting 
nothing  except,  involuntarily,  her  modest 
share  of  the  world's  oxygen,  apparently  hear- 
ing and  seeing  nothing,  Hans  was  troubled. 
Not  thus — pots  tausend !  —  should  blonde 
maids  spend  their  time.  Once  he  loomed  up 
suddenly  beside  her,  huge,  shy,  awkward  — 
like  a  Brobdingnagian  schoolboy — extending 
in  dumb  sympathy  a  package  of  ginger  cakes. 
She  ate  one  to  please  him,  and  never  knew 
they  were  from  his  private  larder  and  made 
by  the  Malmo  girl.  Again,  he  brought  her  a 
grog  so  hot  and  stiff  that  she  choked  and 
tears  ran  down  her  cheeks  when  she  politely 
tried  to  swallow  a  few  drops.  This  experi- 
ment pleased  him,  and  he  was  inclined  to 
repeat  it  with  alarming  frequency,  until 
Monica  checked  his  zeal.  It  was  a  mute 
language  that  they  spoke,  but  they  under- 
stood each  other  very  well,  since  the  droop  of 
an  eyelid,  the  motion  of  a  finger,  a  silence 
suffices  for  human  intercourse  where  there  is 
sympathy.  Nils,  good  soul,  most  comfortably 
dense,  doing  his  thinking  with  not  the  faintest 
sense  of  responsibility,  nevertheless,  in 


The  Garden  of  Eden  9 1 

Monica's  case,  grasped  the  intrinsic  truth, 
and  knew  she  had  left  her  heart  in  her  home- 
country. 

As  for  her,  the  time  came  when  names, 
faces,  scenes  upon  that  ship  which  bore  her 
outward  presence  toward  unknown  lands, 
faded  utterly  or  floated  vaguely  in  her 
memory  like  the  fitful  visions  of  legend  and 
dream. — The  phantom  bark  plunging  on  for- 
ever, with  its  crew  of  lost  souls,  surely  she 
knew  it  well.  Dark  cells,  hermetically 
closed,  rolling  fathom  deep,  and  the  unceas- 
ing moans  of  women  —  was  that  an  episode 
of  the  Inferno?  But  fresh  and  touching,  in 
far  distant  years,  remained  her  thought  of  her 
burly,  simple  Danish  friend,  of  his  quiet 
eyes,  the  slow  strength  of  his  movements,  the 
fine  quality  of  his  awkward  homage,  his  watch- 
fulness like  that  of  a  good  brother,  nay,  of  a 
mother;  and  what  she  in  her  brooding  self- 
absorption  had  not  the  grace  to  discover  until 
the  voyage  was  nearly  over,  his  systematic 
interruption  of  his  own  rest  that  the  stranger 
need  not  too  long  miss  her  breath  of  pure 
air. 

That  luckless  steamer  was  seventeen  days 
crossing  the  Atlantic,  and  met  with  sundry 
exciting  mishaps  which  could  not  have  oc- 


92  The  Garden  of  Eden 

curred,  it  would  appear,  had  some  of  the  men 
passengers  who  had  never  sailed  a  ship  only 
been  in  command.  International  vituperation 
ran  high,  complaints  were  jotted  down  in 
wrath  for  the  London  Times  and  the  Paris 
Herald,  and  Americans,  born  and  bred  in- 
land, even  stopped  playing  poker,  to  proclaim 
with  characteristic  modesty,  how  deep  sea 
soundings  ought  properly  to  be  taken,  if 
those  blank  Dutchmen  understood  their  busi- 
ness. 

But  these  nautical  amenities  left  Monica 
indifferent.  She  passed  in  and  out  the 
salon,  hardly  speaking  a  word  from  morning 
till  night,  and  was  wholly  unconcerned  that 
the  Scilly  Isles  persisted  in  getting  in  the 
way  of  German  steamships.  —  In  point  of 
fact,  she  had  been  attached  in  due  form  to  an 
exemplary  family  party  of  women  who  crossed 
often,  and  had  the  inveterate  habit  of  disap- 
pearing from  view  and  reclining  upon  their 
individual  and  collective  backs  shortly  after 
passing  Sandy  Hook.  As  nothing  in  the 
subsequent  developments  of  this  voyage  had 
encouraged  them  to  abandon  their  wise  re- 
cumbency, Monica  hardly  saw  her  rich  assort- 
ment of  chaperons  from  shore  to  shore.  The 
chaperon  is  so  frequently  helpless  in  the 


The  Garden  of  Eden  93 

critical  moment,  so  morally  or  physically 
inert,  society's  touching  faith  in  the  omnipo- 
tence of  this  institution  puzzles  the  simple 
mind.  In  certain  circles,  indeed,  where 
charity  faileth,  the  chaperon-shibboleth  seems 
to  be  substituted  to  cover  a  multitude  of  sins. 
At  all  events,  had  Monica  felt  adventurously 
inclined,  those  five  honorable  names  on  the 
passenger  list  would  have  genteelly  connived 
at,  not  prevented  her  exploits. 

Her  adventures  were,  however,  of  mild 
flavor.  Sometimes  she  occupied  herself  with 
a  pale  child,  whose  people  were  ill,  and  who 
wandered  about,  patient  and  cold.  Drawn  to 
the  small  waif,  Monica  would  throw  an  arm 
round  her  and  hold  her  close  and  warm,  both 
under  one  fur  wrap.  But  when  the  little 
thing,  comforted,  would  nestle  more  lovingly 
against  her,  it  was  strangely  hard  to  bear, 
and  she  could  have  cried  aloud  in  a  paroxysm 
of  homesickness  and  longing. 

One  evening,  when  but  a  few  days  out,  she 
sat  ostensibly  reading  in  the  salon.  A  group 
near  her  were  chattering  about  astrology, 
graphology,  palmistry,  and  the  like,  bombard- 
ing a  dark-bearded  foreigner  with  questions, 
eagerly  stretching  out  more  or  less  symmetri- 
cal palms,  believers  and  sceptics  disputing 


94  The  Garden  of  Eden 

gayly.  Monica  heard  and  did  not  hear.  Pres- 
ently a  soft  voice  said : 

"Pardon  me:  will  you  permit  me  one 
glance  at  your  hand  ? "  She  looked  up  sud- 
denly into  a  pair  of  strange  eyes,  darker  than 
the  dark  eyes  she  had  seen,  black  with  a 
limpid  blackness,  soft,  fiery,  unfathomable  — 
the  eyes  of  the  Orient. 

"No,  thanks,"  she  said,  grasping  her  book 
with  both  hands.  "It  is  really  not  worth 
while.  I  have  no  faith  in  such  things." 

"But  one  glance, "  pleaded  the  Hungarian. 

"Do,  Miss  Randolph,"  urged  a  lady. 
"Baron  Tihanyi  will  tell  you  wonders.  He 
is  a  gypsy,  I  guess." 

To  avoid  further  discussion  Monica  ex- 
tended her  hand.  Tihanyi  looked  at  it 
gravely,  in  her  face  also,  thanked  her  without 
comment,  and  returned  to  his  place. 

Later,  when  no  one  was  near,  he  approached 
and  said,  not  at  all  like  a  modern  man  talking 
nonsense,  but  with  the  stately  air  of  an 
ancient  priest  of  Sais,  arrayed  in  flowing 
robes,  and  interpreting  cabalistic  myste- 
ries: 

"  Life  will  give  you  much  of  richness, 
sweetness,  pain  —  but  never  your  heart's 
desire.  You  are  a  sea-bird,  restless,  home- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  95 

less,  whirling  over  stormy  waters.  You  will 
disappear  in  them  and  come  up  wonderfully 
white  and  gleaming,  and  plunge  again,  and 
flutter  and  whirl.  So  it  will  be  always  — 
never  your  heart's  desire." 

After  that  she  childishly  avoided  him,  yet 
often  felt  his  dark  gaze  resting  upon  her,  and 
insisting:  "  Never  your  heart's  desire."  She 
needed  no  wise  man  from  the  east  to  tell  her 
this. 

Since  the  night  when  she  had  accepted 
flight  as  her  destiny,  short,  indeed,  was  the 
time  counted  by  days,  but,  measured  by  heart- 
throbs, aeons.  She  felt  at  times  a  dull 
wonder  that  she  had  lived  through  the  many 
partings,  each,  however  light  in  itself,  em- 
blematic of  the  supreme  crucial  parting  with 
Keith,  and  that  she  was  speeding  every 
moment  farther  and  farther  from  her  heart's 
desire.  How  brave  they  had  been  !  Without 
their  strength  she  never  would  have  found 
strength  to  go.  "All  your  geese  are  swans," 
the  tender,  mocking  voice  had  said  in  the 
arbor.  Well,  yes,  thank  God  they  were! 
All  whom  she  loved  best  were  large  natures 
inspiring  faith,  incapable  of  an  ignoble  action. 
In  rare  moments  this  conviction  afforded  her 
a  certain  spiritual  sustenance.  But  not  for 


96  The  Garden  of  Eden 

long,  for  she  was  a  thing  adrift  and  rudder- 
less ;  how  weak,  not  one  of  them  suspected  — 
not  even  Keith;  how  merely  a  loving,  long- 
ing woman  —  all  her  being  centred  in  the 
past.  She  welcomed  sleep,  for  in  dreams  she 
drove  through  summer  woods  with  Lilian, 
emotionless ;  in  dreams  she  and  Keith,  with- 
out offence  or  consciousness  of  this  world's 
rubrics,  were  busy  with  foolish,  harmless, 
inconsequent  things,  and  knew  no  reproach, 
no  parting  and  no  pain.  But  the  waking 
was  bitter  —  a  most  ghastly  dream,  indeed. 
Surely  the  comfortless  ship,  with  leagues  of 
sea  in  its  wake,  the  gray  monotony,  the  poig- 
nant loneliness  was  sheer  unreality,  and  that 
she  lay  helpless  there,  already  swept  so  far 
away  from  all  his  love,  and  those  last  heart- 
breaking, dear  farewells  —  this  was  a  hideous 
nightmare. 

That  smiling  mother!  Not  flinching  once, 
not  wasting  a  word  upon  the  separation,  pushing 
preparations  with  feverish  speed,  thoughtful 
of  smallest  details,  foreseeing  every  imagi- 
nable want  —  as  if  Monica  were  bound  for 
some  shopless  land,  turning  idle  comment 
into  desirable  channels,  protecting  her  child, 
with  happy  suggestion,  creating  the  atmos- 
phere which  should  surround  her,  even 


The  Garden  of  Eden  97 

shrewdly  revealing  rather  more  maternal 
vanity  than  she  otherwise  would  have  deemed 
permissible,  dwelling  pointedly  upon  the  poor 
little  book,  never  letting  people  forget  it,  to 
the  last  instant  victoriously  playing  the  r61e 
of  complacent  mamma,  affable  and  animated 
at  those  terrible  dinners  during  the  last  hur- 
ried days.  —  That  one  always  must  eat !  —  The 
day  Lilian  died  they  dined  sumptuously  and 
had  afternoon  tea !  —  In  New  York  they  dined 
out  every  night !  —  Gracious  with  all  the 
people  they  had  to  see,  ready,  cheerful  of 
speech,  covering  her  daughter's  silence.  — 
That  one  always  must  talk !  —  standing  fair, 
erect,  in  full  sunshine  on  the  wharf  and  smil- 
ing steadily  as  the  ship  steamed  slowly  off! 

Every  scene,  the  most  trivial,  she  lived 
over  and  over  again.  The  humming  of  friends 
and  acquaintances,  who  thought  it  most  reas- 
onable that  she  should  go  to  Europe.  She 
had  always  been  "ambitious,"  they  said,  and 
as  she  had  written  a  book,  they  sympathized 
with  the  consuming  thirst  for  knowledge 
which  she  now  made  manifest.  Certain  per- 
sons, of  the  preternaturally  wise  sort,  even 
assured  her  they  were  not  surprised,  they  had 
penetrated  her  intentions  for  some  months. 
Kitty  remarked,  rather  enviously : 
7 


98  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  I  suppose  you  '11  marry  a  prince,  Monica," 
and  her  mother  retorted  stoutly: 

"She  may,  if  there's  one  over  there  good 
enough  for  her ! " 

A  deputation  of  advanced  women  declared 
they  were  proud  of  her  energy  and  emancipa- 
tion ;  they  considered  her  a  pioneer.  Only 
when  girls,  instead  of  dawdling  in  the 
chimney-corner,  and  thinking  exclusively  of 
lovers,  were  eager  to  go  out  into  the  world 
and  work,  depending  upon  their  own  exer- 
tions and  taking  their  chances,  would  our 
civilization  be  more  than  a  mere  name. 

Monica  had  turned  a  somewhat  wooden 
countenance  toward  them,  and  listened 
absently,  feeling  herself  in  no  wise  concerned 
with  the  progress  of  civilization  or  any  grand 
and  impersonal  theme.  But  now,  in  the  gray 
isolation  of  her  life  on  shipboard,  every  word 
and  intonation  of  those  zealous  speakers  re- 
curred to  her  vividly. 

When  she  told  Pater,  it  was  rather  long 
that  he  sat  motionless,  his  head  on  his  hand, 
his  face  turned  aside,  before  he  responded 
tranquilly: 

"It  is  well,  my  dear.     It  is  best." 

Beyond  this  there  had  seemed  nothing  what- 
ever to  be  said  between  them.  She  could 


The  Garden  of  Eden  99 

only  stroke  and  kiss  his  frail  old  hands  in 
silence,  and  both  were  thinking  he  would  be 
gone  before  she  would  come  again.  Would 
she,  indeed,  ever  come  again?  Suddenly  her 
heart  grew  chill  and  faint,  too  weak  for  its 
burden,  afraid  under  the  anguish  of  parting. 
Was  life  but  one  eternal  farewell  ? 

"  Pater  —  tell  me  —  is  it  worth  while  ?  " 

Tranquilly  the  old  man  spoke : 

"  I  hope,  I  may  perhaps  say  I  believe,  that 
nothing  is  in  vain.  But  this  I  know:  cour- 
age is  always  worth  while."  After  a  moment 
he  added :  "  Our  friend  Balzac  says :  '  Cour- 
age is  life. ' ' 

That  was  all;  but  she  was  ashamed  to 
falter  when  his  spirit,  despite  loneliness  and 
the  tottering,  lamed  body,  ill  with  the  dreary 
ills  of  age,  still  held  itself  upright,  so  they 
sat  quietly  together  until  she  rose  to  go. 

He  did  not  lift  up  his  voice  and  weep,  —  it 
would  have  been,  indeed,  a  poor,  piping  little 
voice  to  lift!  He  did  not  bless  rhetorically, 
like  a  biblical  patriarch.  But  both  knew 
well  she  was  to  him  the  last  dear  thing  on 
earth,  and  no  Abraham  or  Jacob  ever  blessed 
more  mightily  than  he  as  he  pleasantly  re- 
marked he  should  enjoy  her  letters,  and  often 
look  after  her  mother.  For  the  last  time, 


ioo  The  Garden  of  Eden 

with  his  very  palpable  decorum  and  a  grace 
triumphant  over  pathological  accidents,  he 
limped  beside  her,  down  the  long  hall,  led 
her  by  the  hand  across  the  threshold  and  out 
on  the  porch.  Looking  back,  she  drove  down 
the  winding  avenue  through  the  park.  As 
long  as  the  dear  old  house  remained  in  sight 
she  saw  the  little  black  figure  at  the  door. 

Lost  in  endless  retrospection  as  the  ship 
ploughed  on  through  the  gloom,  Monica 
rarely  gave  a  thought  to  the  shores  she  was 
approaching,  was  curiously  devoid  of  interest 
in  her  future.  What  did  that  matter  now? 
She  was  strong.  She  would  probably  live 
her  weary  threescore  years  and  ten.  She 
should  work.  Keith  had  said  she  must  work. 
He  told  her  work  would  be  her  blessing,  and 
he  swore  he  should  care  for  every  word, 
"  merry "  or  otherwise.  As  he  thus  rashly 
engaged  himself  to  plenary  indulgence  for  all 
her  future  literary  misdemeanors,  he  had 
smiled  suddenly,  and  given  her  a  loving  look 
of  half -amused,  half-regretful  apology  and 
deprecation.  He  never,  never  would  consent 
to  her  going  instead  of  him,  except  he  knew 
it  was  for  her  happiness,  he  had  assured  her 
firmly.  "  You  will  work.  You  will  learn  to 
love  the  life  over  there.  It  has  a  marvellous 


The  Garden  of  Eden  101 

charm,  believe  me.  And  it  is  always  harder 
for  the  one  who  stays  behind,"  he  added  low, 
his  face  stern  and  gray,  as  if  carved  in 
granite —  But  where  she  was  to  work,  where 
all  this  blessing  and  happiness  awaited  her, 
neither  Keith  nor  any  other  person,  she  least 
of  all,  had  decided.  That  was  quite  unimpor- 
tant. The  one  essential  thing  had  been  that 
she  who  loved  them  more  than  life  must  flee 
as  from  a  pestilence  from  them  who  loved  her 
no  less.  Why?  Her  presence  caused  them 
pain  and  fear.  She  could  not  continue  to 
consciously  hurt  them.  This  was  clear. 
Therefore  she  had  gone  forth.  But  why  did 
they  suffer  so?  Because  the  world  forbade 
her  to  love  Keith  Lowell.  Why?  Ah,  the 
answer  to  that  Why  she  had  not  yet  grasped. 
Nothing  was  ever  less  clear  to  her.  It  began 
presumably  in  the  fire  mist  and  birth  of 
worlds,  in  the  gray  dawn  of  history.  Among 
the  many  agitated  voices  of  the  swaying  mob 
which  composed  her  personality  was  one  quite 
cool  and  haughty,  that  said,  "We  will  ex- 
amine this  question;  we  shall  have  time." 

In  her  sombre  misery,  one  torture  was 
spared  her  —  doubt  of  the  expediency  of  her 
course.  Her  decision  once  made,  she  had 
regarded  it  as  the  decree  of  fate.  As  her 


IO2  The  Garden  of  Eden 

love,  so  was  her  abnegation  —  inevitable. 
Except  for  brief  relapses,  there  was  no  more 
storm,  no  rebellion  in  her  heart.  On  the 
other  hand,  she  was  sustained  by  no  consol- 
ing thought,  no  sense  of  duty  well  met,  no 
perception  of  fleeing  from  evil,  no  glimmer 
of  self-approval.  In  respect  of  the  morality 
of  her  action,  her  conscience  was  passive  to 
the  verge  of  torpor,  and  her  spirit  lingered  in 
its  lost  paradise. 

But  even  seventeen  days  on  an  Atlantic 
steamship  come  to  an  end.  The  Scilly  Isles 
retreated  —  biding  their  time.  The  owners  of 
the  five  honorable  names  emerged,  radiant 
and  enterprising,  from  their  seclusion,  and 
with  true  distinction  of  manner  chaperoned 
Monica  down  the  gang-plank.  They  told  her 
they  had  had  half  a  mind  to  land  at  Havre, 
in  which  case  she  would  have  gone  with  them 
to  Paris  —  or  to  Pekin,  provided  her  money 
had  held  out.  Whether  she  looked  upon 
pagodas  or  pyramids  or  steppes,  jungles  or 
staid  town  parks,  whether  the  men  she  saw 
were  yellow,  brown,  and  wild,  or  white,  and, 
as  it  happened,  very  tame,  humanity  and 
nature  would  have  seemed  to  her,  in  that 
apathetic  mood,  equally  remote.  She  went 
aimlessly  along  a  beaten  track  where  amiable 


The  Garden  of  Eden  103 

compatriots  expected  her,  met  her,  smoothed 
her  path  and  sent  her  on,  after  days  or  weeks, 
like  an  express  parcel  of  value  by  special 
messenger.  They  gave  dinners  for  her  at 
which  she  seemed  to  do  all  that  was  required 
in  the  way  of  animation,  as  much,  perhaps, 
as  her  neighbor;  she  had  acquired  a  certain 
routine  in  dinners.  They  took  her  to  drive, 
showed  her  monuments,  did  not  remark  that 
they  were  entertaining  but  a  part  of  her  — 
her  shell.  The  world  demands,  in  truth,  de- 
pressingly  little  of  our  real  selves,  and  is 
rather  relieved  when  those  shy  dwellers  in 
our  sanctuaries  keep  well  out  of  sight.  More- 
over, the  hospitable  and  gay  world  where 
Monica  was  passing  cherished  a  certain  toler- 
ance for  writers  as  for  other  incurables. 
Knowing  them  to  be  by  no  means  always 
amusing,  it  charitably  assumed  that  they 
were  deep.  Hence,  having  heard  by  chance 
of  her  venture  in  "merry  art,"  they  did  not 
simply  call  her  dull,  but  attributed  to  her 
vast  designs  upon  the  stored-up  knowledge  of 
Europe,  and  boundless  interest  in  her  own 
intellectual  development.  Hence  with  her 
they  discussed  even  the  time  of  day  and  the 
weather.  Even  the  imputation  of  learning 
she  took  quietly,  and  never  even  smiled  — 


104  The  Garden  of  Eden 

until  later.  Later,  too,  she  felt  twinges  of 
remorse  for  the  stony  ingratitude  with  which 
she  had  accepted  countless  attentions  and 
amenities.  Later,  without  revisiting  great 
pictures,  she  found  that  her  weary,  indiffer- 
ent gaze  had  yet  seized  and  stowed  away 
haunting,  vivid  memories  of  their  undying 
loveliness.  But  at  that  period  she  was  numb 
to  all  things  except  music.  Music  swept 
away  every  shred  of  her  factitious  self-posses- 
sion, and  left  her  a  helpless,  broken,  quiver- 
ing thing.  In  all  the  great  love  stories  on 
the  stage  she  perceived  traces  of  herself  and 
Keith,  yet  always  in  unison,  in  blessed 
action,  suffering,  struggling,  triumphing  or 
dying  together  —  or  one  for  the  other.  No- 
where did  a  loving  woman  simply  go  quite 
prosaically  off  alone.  In  that  theme,  indeed, 
was  no  story,  no  romance,  no  thrill.  Every 
day,  everywhere,  in  bitter  grief,  men  and 
women  were  parting  quietly  —  poor  things  — 
poor  things ! 

So  Monica  plodded  on,  possessed  for  the 
most  part  with  that  immense  heavy  patience 
which  in  natures  destined  to  suffer  much  fol- 
lows cataclysms  of  emotion.  It  did  not  occur 
to  her  that  she  had  a  broken  heart.  That 
organ  beat  with  undeviating  regularity.  Her 


The  Garden  of  Eden  105 

cheek  was  not  pale,  her  step  not  languid,  and 
the  surprising  stability  of  beds  on  land  in- 
duced dense  and  refreshing  sleep.  Whatever 
the  fairies  at  her  cradle  withheld,  they  had 
bestowed  upon  her  the  boon  of  sweet,  sound 
health  which  frequently  serves  as  a  perfect 
mask.  Slight  but  chronic  dyspepsia,  the 
depredations  of  neuralgia,  are  apt  to  impart  to 
our  countenances  a  mere  touching  melancholy 
than  do  the  woes  of  love.  Yet  as  she 
journeyed  on,  self-contained,  conventionally 
shielded,  quiet  and  proper  in  her  well-fitting 
gown,  she  would  have  sacrificed  ruthlessly 
the  glowing  canvases  and  white  glories  of 
their  galleries,  their  crown  jewels  and  the 
wealth  of  their  treasure-vaults,  the  priceless 
lore  of  their  dim  libraries,  all  that  she  per- 
ceived of  beauty  and  power,  for  the  clasp  of 
two  arms  in  an  arbor. 

She  would  have  toiled  in  the  vineyards  with 
Keith,  or  gone  barefoot  with  him  along 
country  ways,  and  laughed  like  the  careless 
vagabonds  she  envied,  or  sat  with  him  like 
the  maids  and  their  sweethearts,  unblinking, 
arms  intertwined,  in  a  crowd,  yet  alone  —  on 
a  bench  in  a  public  garden  —  or  begged,  or 
broken  stones  on  the  road  with  him.  With 
him  —  her  heart's  desire. 


io6  The  Garden  of  Eden 

One  winter  noon  it  happened  that  she 
stood  in  a  park  and  idly  watched  the  play  of 
a  great  fountain  in  the  sunlight.  It  was  a 
hilly  country,  and  spoke  to  her  vaguely  of 
her  northern  home.  "I  have  come  far,"  she 
thought.  "  I  have  gone  by  people  as  a  lost 
child  in  a  dismal  wood  goes  by  trees.  I  have 
passed  miles  and  miles  of  strangers.  I  have 
met  only  Nils  —  Hans  and  the  cuddling  little 
girl."  The  strong  rush  of  water  held  her  in 
thrall.  It  had  proceeded  by  hidden  ways,  it 
burst  forth  briefly,  joyously,  mightily,  leap- 
ing high,  scattering  foam  in  the  sunshine, 
singing  its  marvellous  song  of  the  triumph 
of  life.  Monica  regarded  it  wistfully,  un- 
comprehending, yet  feeling  its  gladness,  its 
force. 

"  I  am  tired.  I  will  stay  here  for  a  while. 
As  well  here  as  anywhere." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  107 


V 


A  PALE  man  with  refined  features  sat  stooping 
over  a  much  littered  desk  and  writing  with 
rapid  nervous  hand  for  more  than  an  hour, 
when  a  maid  with  a  tray  appeared. 

"Already  seven?"  he  said,  glancing  at  his 
watch.  "  Thank  you,  Berta." 

His  way  of  thanking  every  fellow-creature 
who  did  him  the  smallest  service  was  specially 
his  own,  never  a  mechanical  response,  but  in 
each  case  a  fresh  recognition  of  direct  per- 
sonal kindness  and  a  cordial  tribute  to  the 
human  dignity  of  the  servitor. 

Berta  rejoiced  daily  in  that  "  Thank  you." 

"  We  don't  expect  it,  of  course,"  she  would 
philosophize  to  her  colleagues,  "  but  if  ever  we 
get  it,  we  are  mighty  glad.  Now,  when  the 
Herr  Baron  looks  up  every  morning,  always  a 
little  surprised,  with  those  good,  clear  eyes 
of  his,  I  could  forget  that  he  was  a  great  and 
learned  man,  and  think  it  was  just  a  good 
child  whose  tea  I  was  bringing,  except  for 
real  goodness.  There  never  was  a  child  so 


io8  The  Garden  of  Eden 

sweet-tempered  and  so  little  trouble  as  the 
Herr  Baron." 

"  Leastwise,  not  his  own  two,"  some  ag- 
grieved voice  would  retort. 

"  If  the  Herr  Baron  would  remember  to 
drink  his  tea  while  it  is  hot,"  the  maid  now 
ventured  to  suggest. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Berta,  certainly,"  he  replied,  his 
head  buried  in  his  papers. 

She  poured  out  some  tea. 

"  If  the  Herr  Baron  would  not  forget  — '' 

He  looked  up  pleasantly. 

"  I  am  a  doctor,  Berta." 

"  If  the  Herr  Doctor  would  please  drink  it 
now  — "  she  persisted,  glancing  with  dis- 
approval at  a  broad  sofa  upon  which  rugs  and 
cushions  bore  marks  of  unpremeditated  bivouac 
—  "  yesterday  the  tea  was  left,  the  bread  hardly 
broken.  The  Herr  Doctor  eats  nothing  at  all, 
and  as  for  sleep  —  "  she  shook  her  head  omi- 
nously at  the  sofa. 

"  It  is  not  so  bad  as  all  that.  Sister  Sera- 
phina  often  brings  me  a  stirrup  cup,  and  my 
patients  are  continually  gorging  me  with  good 
things,  I  assure  you." 

He  got  up,  stretched  his  bent  back  and 
cramped  legs,  his  face  contracting  slightly  as 
from  pain,  took  the  cup  and  drank  it  half  out, 


The  Garden  of  Eden  109 

standing.  With  a  roll  in  his  hand  he  began  to 
pace  his  study. 

The  room  was  large,  dim,  and  disorderly,  — 
a  place  where  a  few  things  were  continually 
coming  in  and  nothing  ever  came  out.  Hence 
prevailed  an  inevitable  plethora  of  furniture 
selected  by  diverse  minds ;  of  painted,  em- 
broidered, and  beaded  offerings  which  would 
have  delighted  the  soul  of  a  squaw;  provoca- 
tive foot-stools  and  glaring  rugs,  fashioned  by 
idolatrous  but  inartistic  women ;  gaudy  home- 
made vases,  which  another  man  would  have 
shattered  forthwith  ;  match-safes,  watch-cases, 
and  portfolios;  innumerable  knicknacks  con- 
structed of  cotton  velvet,  cardboard,  and 
straw,  glued,  pasted,  and  tortured  into  shapes 
that  never  were  on  land  or  sea,  not  good  to 
look  at,  not  good  for  fuel,  not  good  to  eat. 

But  easily  counterbalancing  this  riffraff 
were  many  things  that  seemed  to  belong  by 
good  rights  to  the  man  who  walked  about 
among  them  eating  his  bread  like  a  schoolboy. 
Some  choice  pieces  of  old  mahogany  opposed 
their  ancestral  dignity  to  the  swarm  of  ephem- 
eral trifles.  Alcoves  filled  with  books  from 
floor  to  ceiling,  —  scientific  works,  classics, 
modern  literature,  in  many  languages ;  glass 
cabinets  of  instruments,  glass  tables,  strewn 


no  The  Garden  of  Eden 

with  delicately  murderous  blades;  large 
globes,  a  couple  of  which  were  astronomical ; 
telescopes,  microscopes;  and  an  array  of 
retorts,  queer-shaped  jars;  and  flasks  that 
might  have  sufficed  for  a  Rosicrucian.  A  good 
copy  of  Murillo's  Saint  Anthony  of  Padua 
hung  near  the  desk,  upon  which  stood,  strongly 
lighted  by  the  one  light  burning,  a  tall  stat- 
uette, a  hooded  monk,  his  finger  on  his  lip. 
On  a  bracket  was  the  pretty  boy  extracting  a 
thorn  from  his  foot.  From  a  dim  corner  an 
Eros  in  marble  looked  down  on  all  this  chaos, 
and  was  hardly  more  serenely  remote  from  his 
surroundings,  more  purely  chiselled  in  feature, 
than  the  man  with  the  bread. 

Upon  a  large  palisander  table,  a  Christmas 
offering  from  a  grateful  old  man,  an  alabaster 
vase  —  good  of  its  kind  but  wholly  out  of 
place  —  reared  itself  obtrusively.  Two  thank- 
ful patients  had  sent  it  from  Italy.  Near  by, 
an  album  displayed  his  monogram  and  coro- 
net worked  in  green  and  gold.  He  stopped 
an  instant,  lifted  a  straw  framework  orna- 
mented with  patches  of  linen  forget-me-nots 
of  aniline  hues ;  within  the  mechanism  was  a 
ribbon  painted,  alas !  by  hand,  and  record- 
ing amid  flowery  scrolls  and  numbers  the  days 
of  the  week  and  month.  It  was  inconceivably 


The  Garden  of  Eden  1 1 1 

ugly,  but  that  could  be  pardoned  had  the 
thing  worked.  As  he  put  it  back  on  the 
palisander  table  and  under  the  wide-spreading 
vase  and  near  the  green  and  gold  album,  the 
slight  irony  of  his  raised  eyebrows  and  flit- 
ting smile  merged  into  thoughtfulness,  for 
he  remembered  the  innocent  devotion  of  the 
fifteen-year-old  girl  who  had  designed  this 
horror  after  a  half-year's  painful  illness,  in 
which  she  had  clung  to  him  pathetically  and 
had  otherwise  little  help. 

"  If  they  would  not  always  seek  to  material- 
ize their  affection,"  he  thought.  "  Affection  is 
so  good.  I  at  least  cannot  afford  to  reject  an 
atom  that  may  reach  me.  But  if  they  would 
not  express  it  in  slippers  worked  in  Berlin 
wool,  in  beaded  pen-wipers  and  other  atro- 
cities. It  would  be  more  restful  if  they  would 
be  content  with  the  significance  of  a  word,  a 
grasp  of  the  hand,  a  flower.  Still  —  it  is  ata- 
vism, I  presume  —  the  recurrence  to  barbaric 
ornament  and  frippery.  I  might  build  a  villa 
for  all  these  things,  or  a  fine  mausoleum, 
or  pile  them  up  in  mosaics  like  the  bones  in 
the  vaults  of  the  Church  of  the  Capuchins. 
But  what  matters  it  if  my  study  gets  over- 
populated?  and  why  should  I  arrogate  taste 
superior  to  that  of  the  patient  compilers  of 


ii2  The  Garden  of  Eden 

straw  and  beads?  From  some  higher  point  of 
view  the  difference  between  us  may  be  quite 
imperceptible.  At  all  events,  I  know  what  to 
do  with  their  slippers.  And  that  is  good,  for 
probably  no  man  on  earth  ever  got  so  many  as 
I — except  perhaps  some  popular  clergyman; 
and  no  man  ever  had  less  use  for  them,  for  I 
am  always  booted.  Ah,  yes,  I  can  manage 
the  slippers.  They  walk  off  fast." 

Three  minutes  sufficed  for  his  perambula- 
tory  breakfast.  He  wrote  a  half-hour  more, 
when  two  little  boys  in  broad  collars  ran  in 
and  bade  him  good  morning.  He  turned  to 
them  with  a  cordiality  so  affectionate  and 
winning,  it  would  seem  to  indicate  the  freest 
and  sweetest  relationship  between  father  and 
sons.  But  the  dark  little  faces  wore  a  sullen 
or  shy  expression ;  their  eyes  did  not  meet  his 
with  candor,  but  glanced  furtively  with  a 
fauve  gleam  beneath  drooping  lids  and  the 
sweep  of  thick  lashes. 

"  My  theme  book,  please,  papa." 

"  Directly,  Egon.  Bodo,  what 's  the  mat- 
ter? Out  with  your  tongue.  Headache,  eh? 
Stomach  queer?  " 

"  He  stuffed.  He  got  into  the  pantry.  He 
ate  up  all  the  jelly  there  was  left." 

"  Let  him  speak  for  himself." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  113 

Bodo  hung  his  head,  twisted  a  button  and 
said  nothing. 

"And  you,  Egon?  You  abstained,  I  pre- 
sume? Avoided  the  pantry?  Resisted  the 
jelly?" 

"Oh,  he,"  began  little  Bodo,  but  checked 
himself  in  response  to  one  pregnant  look  from 
his  older  and  stronger  brother. 

"  Well,  Bodo,  you  '11  have  to  take  the  conse- 
quences of  your  raid  on  the  pantry.  You  '11 
survive  this  attack,  my  dear.  But  a  headache 
is  not  a  nice  thing  to  take  to  school,  and  my 
boys,  from  all  accounts,  need  no  curb  on  their 
ambition.  Egon,  this  Latin  is  scatter-brained 
work.  What  made  you  so  careless,  dear  boy? 
There  was  no  new  rule.  You  've  had  all  that." 

He  put  his  hands  on  the  child's  shoulders, 
and  looked  down  kindly  upon  the  sulky  little 
fellow,  who  muttered : 

"  The  house  was  full  of  chattering  people 
and  all  the  doors  were  open.  That  Charity 
Ball  Committee  —  it  meets  here  all  the  time," 
he  flung  out  viciously.  "  I  did  n't  know  where 
to  go.  It  was  cold  in  my  room.  I  got  in  the 
dining-room  bay-window  behind  the  curtain, 
but  mamma  and  Count  Arco  came  in  and 
spread  out  books  of  engravings  on  the  table 
and  talked  about  costumes,  and  giggled  so  "  — 


114  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  Never  mind  that,  Egon.  We  won't  blame 
all  creation  when  we  go  wool-gathering  and 
forget  our  oratio  obliqua.  Ring  for  Berta." 

"  I  thought  the  children's  play-room  was 
always  warm,  Berta?  Please  see  that  it  is 
always  in  readiness,  that  they  may  work  there 
undisturbed." 

"  It  was  stuffed  full  —  skirts  and  feathers 
and  things,"  grumbled  Egon. 

"  I  could  n't  find  my  stamp  album,"  whined 
Bodo. 

"  Some  boxes  were  put  there  hurriedly,  sir, 
stuffs  and  models  for  the  costumes,  sir  —  " 

"Ah,  quite  so;  but  —  but  that  is  excep- 
tional. Kindly  see  to  it,  Berta —  When 
have  you  to  hand  in  your  theme,  Egon?  " 

"  To-morrow." 

"  Then  you  have  sufficient  time  to  correct 
it.  I  have  marked  the  worst  mistakes  with  a 
cross  in  the  margin.  What  they  are  you  can 
find  out  yourself.  Leave  the  book  on  my 
desk  again  to-night.  You  will  try  to  do  it 
better  this  time,  won't  you,  Egon?" 

"  All  right,"  said  the  boy,  relenting  and  los- 
ing for  an  instant  his  expression  of  deep  per- 
sonal injury.  "  But  we  have  Greek  Exposition 
to-day."  Gloom  and  wrath  again  settled  upon 
his  countenance. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  115 

"  Well,  so  have  the  other  boys,"  returned 
his  father,  cheerfully.  "  It  was  not  invented 
for  your  exclusive  annoyance.  Put  it  on  my 
desk  to-night  with  your  Latin.  It  is  about 
time  for. you  to  start,  little  men.  Don't  be 
too  hard  on  your  masters.  On  Sunday  after- 
noon I  '11  try  to  find  time  to  take  you  out 
somewhere.  " 

"  Oh,  papa,  you  always  say  that !  "  cried 
Bodo,  with  a  pessimistic  air. 

"  Bodo,  you  have  dislocated  that  button. 
Just  ask  Berta  to  sew  it  on  for  you  quickly." 

"  May  I  go  in  the  tram,  papa?"  asked  the 
child,  with  suffering  mien. 

"  No,  sir.  You  are  not  so  debilitated  as  all 
that.  You  trot  on  your  good  little  legs." 

He  smiled  encouragingly  at  them  and  sent 
them  away.  But  as  the  door  closed  behind 
them  his  face  grew  grave,  his  heart  heavy. 
He  was  conscious  they  had  not  the  air  of 
young  things  expanding  in  the  sunshine. 
They  looked  anaemic  and  nervous,  —  their 
inheritance  from  both  sides  of  the  house,  • — 
they  were  not  frank,  not  joyous.  From  their 
professors  he  heard  only  bad  reports.  That 
they  did  not  lead  their  classes  was  a  matter 
of  indifference  to  him,  but  the  absence  of 
goodwill  and  cheerfulness,  their  misanthropic 


n6  The  Garden  of  Eden 

attitude,  — all  this  was  deplorable.  They  were 
not  happy,  had  not  what  their  natures  needed. 
Yet  what  could  he  do  ?  How  could  he  devote 
more  time  to  them?  But  if  he  could  take 
them  off  for  a  year,  and  live  with  them  in  the 
woods  and  among  the  mountains.  Would 
that  not  smooth  the  suspicious  irritability 
from  their  faces  ?  Then  they  would  fall  back 
a  year  in  their  already  unsatisfactory  school- 
ing; not  that  he  cared  for  that,  but  Church 
and  State  made  such  demands  on  the  young- 
sters. If  they  were  not  confirmed  at  the  usual 
age,  if  they  did  not  pass  their  first  examina- 
tions at  the  customary  time,  they  would  be 
at  a  decided  disadvantage  later.  In  all  these 
matters  prevailed  a  certain  constraint,  in  re- 
spect of  which  he  had  his  own  opinions.  But 
to  go  away  with  them  would  be  impossible. 
When  could  an  overworked  man  realize  such 
a  dream?  Until  August  or  September  he 
could  never  get  away,  and  then  but  for  a  short 
rest;  was,  moreover,  at  first  usually  in  such  a 
state  of  physical  and  mental  exhaustion  that 
he  had  to  tend  himself  as  if  he  were  his  own 
baby,  and  had  not  strength  enough  to  teach 
a  dog  to  sit  up  and  beg.  What  his  boys 
needed  was  the  right  sort  of  freedom,  the 
right  sort  of  attention,  space  for  the  happy 


The  Garden  of  Eden  117 

development  of  their  own  individuality.  Should 
he  send  them  away  to  school?  But  there 
they  would  be  still  more  shy  and  strange  than 
at  home.  Beside,  he  believed  in  the  institution 
of  the  family.  He  smiled  drearily.  To  pre- 
serve even  the  semblance  of  it,  he  had  made 
and  would  make  every  sacrifice.  No,  he 
could  not  send  the  little  boys  away.  For 
their  own  sakes,  for  his  sake,  for  the  sake 
of  all.  A  tutor  in  the  house?  It  was  so  dif- 
ficult to  find  the  right  influence.  They  came 
home  from  school  late  in  the  afternoon,  and 
must  do  their  work  themselves.  It  was  not 
too  long  or  difficult,  if  they  would  take  it 
cheerfully.  A  tutor,  were  he  a  paragon  of 
wisdom,  tact,  and  happy  qualities,  would  have 
almost  nothing  to  do  except  in  the  odd  hours. 
His  salary  would,  moreover,  pay  for  more  beds 
in  the  hospital,  and  his  presence  would  be 
a  confession  of  weakness  on  the  part  of  the 
family.  Weakness?  What  was  it,  then,  but 
weakness,  this  inability  to  cope  with  two  chil- 
dren of  eleven  and  ten  years  of  age? 

Yet  for  other  men's  children  he  seemed 
often  able  to  suggest  the  right  course.  Other 
men's  children  met  him  with  the  glad  welcome 
he  had  never  the  happiness  of  seeing  in  his 
own  boys'  eyes.  In  the  street,  wherever  he 


1 1 8  The  Garden  of  Eden 

passed,  strange  boys,  poor  boys,  orphans 
marching  two  by  two  in  their  gray  uniforms, 
responded  frankly  to  his  smile,  were  ready  to 
chatter  gayly  to  him.  And  other  men  were 
busy.  Few  professional  men  could  devote 
much  time  to  their  children.  But  few  knew 
them  well,  studied  them  intimately,  if  the 
truth  were  told.  Sometimes  this  method  or 
want  of  method  turned  out  well  enough. 
Sometimes  in  a  crisis  a  father  was  confronted 
by  the  sad  fact  that  his  son  was  an  utter 
stranger.  Still  other  fathers,  the  majority 
of  his  acquaintance,  stood  nearer  their  chil- 
dren, and  he  himself  stood  nearer  to  their 
children  than  he  stood  to  his  own,  —  on  freer, 
more  familiar  and  satisfying  terms.  Wrong 
was  done  those  two  little  morose  boys,  wrong 
in  divers  ways.  But  what  was  remediable? 
How  could  he  give  them  more  sunshine?  For 
he  loved  them  well.  How  remove  Egon's 
unceasing  sullen,  suspicious  protest  against 
the  world  at  large  —  perhaps  against  exist- 
ence itself?  And  Bodo  was  not  unlike  him, 
merely  more  of  a  baby.  Such  protest,  was 
it,  then,  not  logical  and  legitimate?  Was  the 
wrong  deeper,  more  deadly,  than  mere  faults 
and  omissions  in  daily  training?  That  in- 
eradicable wrong,  must  one  not  seek  it  a 


The  Garden  of  Eden  119 

dozen  years  since?  Were  there  not  crimes 
unrecognized  by  our  clumsy  complex  codes, 
and  encouraged  indeed  by  all  our  great  moral 
institutions,  yet  no  less  cruel  than  murder? 
Must  not  every  thoughtful  man  ask  himself 
if  the  bestowal  of  life  under  certain  conditions 
was  not  almost  as  monstrous  as  its  removal? 

He  pressed  his  hand  upon  his  breast,  where 
such  thoughts  always  created  a  corresponding 
physical  oppression. 

"  This  will  never  do,  —  with  three  operations 
awaiting  me  at  the  hospital,  two  of  them  seri- 
ous. I  must  certainly  take  the  boys  a  long 
walk  on  Sunday  afternoon."  But  he  did  not. 

He  hastily  drank  the  cold  tea  left  in  his 
cup,  laid  the  scattered  pages  of  his  article  in 
a  drawer,  jotted  down  a  few  memoranda  in 
his  note-book,  slipped  a  case  of  fine  instru- 
ments into  his  pocket,  took  the  orders  from 
the  telephone  book  in  the  hall,  answered  per- 
sonally a  few  frantic  appeals,  put  on  a  sable- 
lined  coat  which  a  servant  was  holding  in 
readiness,  and  left  the  house  to  begin  his  day's 
work.  On  his  face  was  a  thoughtful  serenity 
which  his  friends  declared  so  restful  that  it 
was  sufficient  in  itself  to  cure  any  ordinary 
illness,  and  which  his  enemies  called  "  that 
insufferable  composure." 


I2O  The  Garden  of  Eden 

It  was  hardly  more  than  eight  o'clock  when 
his  coupd  drove  up  to  the  portals  of  a  large 
airy  building  well  set  back  in  a  garden  on  the 
corner  of  two  quiet  streets.  From  the  moment 
his  foot  crossed  the  threshold  his  bearing 
became  erect,  his  expression  more  spirited. 
The  very  sight  of  those  long  rows  of  windows 
was  like  the  bugle-call  to  the  war-horse.  This 
was  his  chief  field  of  action,  and  he  loved  it 
Here  fruitless  brooding  and  weary  speculation 
had  no  place.  In  spite  of  disappointments, 
baffled  hopes,  the  ceaseless  symphony  of  pain, 
and  the  ignorance  and  impotency  of  science 
before  many  evils,  was  yet  here  the  clear  and 
triumphant  record  of  the  progress  of  human 
knowledge  through  human  patience,  of  health 
restored,  useful  lives  prolonged  by  feats  of 
surgery  unknown  to  our  forefathers.  When, 
indeed,  no  rescue  was  possible  for  a  doomed 
mortal  but  by  the  one  chance,  —  the  fatal  two- 
edged  knife,  cruel  but  kind,  —  and  that  one 
chance  failed,  it  was  poor  consolation  to 
reflect  they  would  do  these  things  better  a 
hundred  years  hence,  and  know  how  to  save 
even  a  patient  the  fountains  of  whose  being 
were  poisoned.  On  such  days  it  cost  him 
more  effort  to  banish  from  his  face  the  deep 
questioning  of  his  soul.  But  it  was  relief  and 


The  Garden  of  Eden  121 

blessing  that  his  cool  intelligence,  his  keen 
eye,  his  fine  intuition,  and  that  marvellously 
sure  hand  bestowed  in  innumerable  critical 
cases. 

The  janitor  straightened  and  brightened  as 
the  doctor  passed.  A  couple  of  young  assist- 
ants followed  him  into  his  private  room.  The 
matron  and  white-capped  nurses  looked  every 
morning  as  if  something  especially  fortuitous 
had  taken  place,  and  down  the  wards  went 
the  good  tidings  with  a  ripple  of  anticipation. 
When  the  great  doctor  and  his  young  col- 
leagues in  their  white  linen  coats,  and  a  few 
students  made  their  morning  rounds  a  sudden 
alertness  revived  painworn  bodies  and  tired 
minds. 

"I  have  been  in  a  hospital,"  Sister  Seraphina 
often  said  to  Sister  Olivia,  "  where  the  patients 
shivered  and  shook  at  the  sight  of  the  Direc- 
tor, and  we  too  hardly  less,  —  not  that  he  was 
cruel,  only  hard  and  forbidding  in  manner; 
but  when  Dr.  Arenberg  comes  in  I  think  it's 
miracles,  for  all  my  beds  begin  to  look  up 
like  flowers  after  a  summer  rain,  the  private 
rooms  as  well  as  the  wards." 

The  usual  business  passed  rapidly.  Instruc- 
tions to  the  secretary,  to  the  matron,  the 
nurses,  questions  of  diet  and  whims  of  first- 


122  The  Garden  of  Eden 

class  patients.  The  brief  time  spent  at  each 
bedside  never  suggested  haste,  and  the  mere 
presence  of  one  of  the  most  nervous  men  on 
earth  quieted  the  nerves  of  his  patients. 

A  goodly  number  of  people  awaited  him. 
A  sturdy  peasant  met  him  with  the  announce- 
ment, so  frequent  that  he  no  longer  smiled 
at  it: 

"  Doctor,  I  have  long  wanted  to  insult  you." 

"  Not  on  your  own  account,  I  presume." 

"  No,  Doctor,  I  must  insult  you  about  my 
wife." 

"  I  am  always  proud  of  my  master,"  ex- 
claimed young  Fleming  after  the  third  opera- 
tion, "  but,  upon  my  word,  he  has  worked 
to-day  with  an  —  elegance  —  with  a  verve  — 
with  a  —  "  he  waved  his  hand  eloquently. 

"Where  in  the  deuce  does  he  get  his 
strength?"  demanded  one  of  the  new-comers. 
"  Why,  he 's  got  the  hand  of  a  woman." 

"  He  is  one  bunch  of  nerves,  man,  perfectly 
under  control.  They  described  that  last  oper- 
ation in  three  columns  of  '  Figaro '  as  the 
masterpiece  of  a  Paris  surgeon.  I  Ve  seen 
Dr.  Arenberg  perform  it  three  or  four  times  a 
week,  and  go  off  with  that  quiet  air  of  his,  as 
simple  as  a  child." 

The  whole  corps  of  assistants  and  nurses 


The  Garden  of  Eden  123 

had  worked  with  precision,  yet  as  the  doctor 
drove  away  from  the  hospital  he  regretted 
that  he  was  starting  on  his  visits  an  hour  too 
late.  From  house  to  house  he  occupied  him- 
self unceasingly  with  his  memoranda  or  read- 
ing, for  his  coupe  carried  a  generous  supply 
of  newspapers,  reviews,  and  books,  not  exclu- 
sively scientific,  but  modern  English  and 
French  of  best  quality. 

Sister  Seraphina,  hastening  along  the  corri- 
dor with  a  nice  little  luncheon  for  him,  had 
been  accosted  and  detained  two  minutes  by  a 
convalescent  relearning  to  walk.  In  the.se  two 
minutes  he  had  given  his  last  orders  and  rap- 
idly left  the  house,  but  a  glass  of  wine  and  a 
biscuit  he  accepted  somewhere  along  his  route. 

His  patients  were  that  morning,  as  usual,  of 
high  and  low  degree.  From  a  palace  where  a 
little  princess  looked  up  affectionately  at  him 
he  drove  to  a  poor  bookbinder's,  whose  child 
was  also  down  with  scarlet  fever.  She  too  was 
patient  and  good  and  trustful,  like  the  king's 
daughter;  and  king  and  anarchist  were  alike 
anxious,  and  the  fever  took  its  course  and  was 
no  respecter  of  persons.  Nor  was  the  doctor, 
who  stayed  longer,  however,  at  the  bedside  of 
the  bookbinder's  daughter,  and  brought  her  a 
bunch  of  violets,  and  chatted  with  interest  with 


124  The  Garden  of  Eden 

the  father,  a  gentle  creature  with  fierce  theo- 
ries, who  had  recently  lost  his  wife. 

Secrets  of  boudoirs,  skeletons  of  cupboards, 
hidden  springs  of  action,  family  griefs  and 
fears,  this  quiet  doctor  felt  with  the  pulses  of 
his  patients.  Sometimes  he  asked  himself  if 
it  were  the  fault  of  his  profession  or  his  per- 
sonality that  he  was  so  vast  a  depository  of 
family  secrets.  Not  hysterical  women  alone 
revealed  to  him  their  misunderstood  emotions, 
but  practical  men  turned  to  him  with  their  dif- 
ficulties, to  which  he  listened  with  the  shrewd- 
ness of  the  attorney,  the  gentleness  of  the 
priest,  and  the  gentle  irony  of  the  man  of  the 
world.  He  never  took  things  tragically,  never 
seemed  to  advise,  yet  in  many  houses  in  all 
critical  moments  was  brother,  friend,  and  self- 
less counsellor. 

After  a  five-minutes  interview  with  an  old 
lady,  the  widow  of  an  eminent  professor  whom 
he  had  known  and  liked,  he  said : 

"  Send  for  me  sooner  next  time,  I  am  always 
at  your  service." 

"  I  cannot  bear  to  put  one  feather's  weight 
on  you.  I  was  ashamed  to  send  at  all.  The 
attack  was  nothing  new.  I  thought  it  would 
take  care  of  itself.  But  it  took  care  to  repeat 
itself  immediately,  so  I  had  no  choice." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  125 

He  looked  at  her  kindly.  She  was  a  sen- 
sible and  good  woman,  cheery,  practical,  with 
energy  and  strength  despite  her  years. 

"  The  house  is  rather  large  and  empty,  is  it 
not?  Your  life  too  solitary.  You  are  used  to 
thinking  of  others.  It  has  kept  you  young. 
You  will  grow  old  too  fast  to  please  me,  if  you 
have  nothing  to  do.  When  do  your  sister  and 
the  children  come?" 

"  Not  until  summer.  It  is  rather  lonely.  I 
am  getting  to  be  an  old  gad-about  and  med- 
dler in  other  men's  matters.  I  am  continually 
going  to  see  somebody.  But  seeing  too  many 
people  is  not  enlivening." 

"  No.  I  at  least  have  never  found  it  so," 
he  agreed,  gravely.  "  The  Lorings  are  look- 
ing for  a  home  for  a  young  country-woman, 
they  told  me  the  other  day.  They  speak 
very  highly  of  her,  say  she  is  quiet  and  stu- 
dious. Why  could  you  not  try  the  experi- 
ment?" 

"  Oh,"  she  returned  doubtfully,  "  a  stran- 
ger in  the  house?  And  American  girls  are 
usually  so  restless,  so  exacting,  so  very  lively." 

He  smiled. 

"  They  say  she  is  a  nice  girl.  I  've  not  seen 
her.  Suppose  you  let  Mr.  Loring  call  with 
her?  It  will  bind  neither  of  you.  If  you 


126  The  Garden  of  Eden 

should  find  her  at  all  sympathetic,  I  would 
advise  you  to  let  her  come.  A  new  interest 
and  a  modicum  of  caretaking  are  the  best 
medicines  I  can  prescribe  for  you." 

"  The  young  lady  would  feel  flattered  if  she 
knew  she  was  expected  to  serve  as  tonic  for 
a  stupid  old  woman." 

"  Ah,  she  may  need  you  quite  as  much," 
he  returned  cordially. 

Up  and  down  long  flights  of  stairs  leading 
to  poor  garrets  where  overworked,  underfed 
breadwinners  lay  sore  stricken,  while  an  inju- 
diciously bountiful  supply  of  children  clamored 
for  food,  in  luxurious  homes  where  people 
were  ill  from  sheer  overfeeding  and  lazi- 
ness, he  made  his  way,  everywhere  kind  and 
equable.  But  for  his  worldlings  he  drew 
from  a  good  store  of  irony  which  he  left 
outside  when  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  the 
garret.  The  ignorance  of  the  poor  never 
wearied  him,  and  when  he  had  no  time  for 
his  spoiled  countesses,  he  would  sit  long  with 
patients  who  could  not  pay,  and  showed  them 
infinite  gentleness  and  interest  in  their  most 
trivial  concerns. 

Having  made  only  the  most  pressing  visits 
he  reached  home  toward  three.  On  account 
of  the  children's  school  the  family  lunched 


The  Garden  of  Eden 


127 


at  one,  without  regard  to  his  extremely  uncer- 
tain arrival.  He  seized  without  ceremony 
some  cold  meat  and  whatever  he  found  on 
the  sideboard.  "  Never  mind  that,  Wolf,"  he 
said  to  a  servant  struggling  to  preserve  de- 
corum and  set  the  table.  "  I  '11  picnic  to- 
day." 

"  The  Herr  Baron  always  picnics,"  returned 
the  man,  disconsolately. 

"  How  many  are  in  the  waiting-room?  " 

"  Thirty-seven,  sir." 

One  by  one  they  came  in  with  their  troubles, 
their  aches,  their  weaknesses  and  fears ;  more 
peasants  who  wanted  to  "  insult "  him ;  old  men 
who  confidently  expected  him  to  restore  their 
lost  youth;  incredulous  incurables,  insisting 
they  never  before  had  anything  of  the  kind ; 
women  who,  upon  being  asked  one  simple 
question,  always  told  from  the  beginning  their 
endless,  irrelevant,  thrice-told  tale;  cripples; 
genteel  persons;  poor  souls  with  loathsome 
complaints ;  haggard  women  with  frail  babies ; 
old  patients  whom  he  could  dismiss  briefly; 
new  ones  requiring  time  and  fine  attention; 
while  Wolf  with  the  manners  of  a  diplomat 
ushered  them  in  strictly  in  turn. 

For  each  the  doctor  had  the  same  penetrat- 
ing scrutiny,  the  same  simplicity  and  unwea- 


128  The  Garden  of  Eden 

rying  patience.  And  although  he  sat  in  a 
comfortable  chair,  except  when  he  rose  to  use 
the  stethoscope  and  to  knock  at  poor  mortal 
frames  with  his  light,  sensitive  fingers,  or  to 
walk  about  and  stretch  his  neuralgic  legs,  or 
wash  his  hands  or  open  or  shut  a  window, 
perhaps  even  a  bricklayer  on  a  strike  might 
have  deigned  to  comprehend  that  this  too 
was  work,  —  this  concentration  of  one's  fac- 
ulties for  the  good  of  humanity,  this  flexible 
adaptation  of  one's  best  powers  to  the  hum- 
blest needs  of  one's  brother,  this  loving  intui- 
tion and  willing  slavery. 

"  With  this  sort  of  heart  trouble  you  can 
live  to  be  eighty,  you  know,  and  die  of  some- 
thing else,"  he  said  encouragingly  to  a  young 
merchant.  "  Of  course  you  must  be  a  little 
careful  and  avoid  over-exertion.  Don't  run 
to  catch  a  train  or  a  tram.  Don't  lift  heavy 
things.  Carry  your  cares  lightly  and  don't 
overwork.  It  is  all  very  simple,  you  see." 

"  I  think  I  can  do  it,"  the  other  replied, 
cheerfully.  "  My  business  runs  smoothly ;  my 
home  is  quiet  and  happy,  so  much  so,  I 
should  be  sorry  to  have  to  leave,  you  know, 
while  the  children  are  so  young.  Oh,  yes, 
I  can  be  moderate  as  a  mill." 

"  That   is   right.     Walk    all   you    like.     Be 


The  Garden  of  Eden  1 29 

much  in  the  open  air  with  your  wife  and 
babies.  Eat  regularly,  avoid  exhaustion,  be 
rational,  and  you  are  good  for  decades  yet 
—  decades !  " 

As  the  young  man,  no  longer  anxious,  but 
content,  had  left  the  room  to  return  to  his 
quiet  and  happy  home,  his  adviser's  gaze  rested 
with  a  certain  sphinx-like  sweetness  upon  the 
dark  and  mournful  figure  of  St.  Benedict.  A 
door  leading  into  the  reception-rooms  opened, 
interrupting  his  reverie,  and  a  pretty  little 
woman,  dark,  slight,  and  sharp-featured,  rustled 
in. 

He  rose  inquiringly. 

"  Wolf  said  you  were  alone,"  she  began. 
"Aurel,  I  hope  you  are  not  forgetting?" 

"  That  I  have  not  seen  you  to-day?  "  he  re- 
turned, politely. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  gave  him 
a  furtive  side-glance,  like  Egon,  whom  she  re- 
sembled. 

"  It  is  the  Arcos'  Thursday." 

"  I  must  admit  that  stupendous  fact  had 
escaped  my  memory.  I  fear  it  is  impossible 
for  me  to  go." 

"  Aurel !  You  say  that  every  time.  You 
have  not  been  there  all  winter !  " 

"  But  to  other  places,"  he  returned,  quietly. 
9 


130  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"Few  enough.  What  will  they  think? 
What  will  other  people  think?" 

"  My  dear  Melanie,  if  we  begin  to  ask  what 
the  others  think,  I  assure  you  I  rarely  have 
time  to  find  out  what  I  think  myself,  which 
interests  me  far  more." 

His  calm  voice,  his  way  of  examining  his 
memoranda  as  he  spoke,  irritated  her  exceed- 
ingly. 

"  But  it  is  too  pointed,"  she  cried,  "  exactly 
now,  when  we  are  occupied  continually  with 
the  Charity  Ball  preparations." 

He  looked  at  her  thoughtfully  and  was 
silent.  There  was  a  certain  amount  of  reason 
in  her  argument.  Count  Arco  was  a  gallant 
man,  with  nothing  on  earth  to  do  but  to  amuse 
himself.  Never  dangerous,  he  fluttered,  flirted, 
and  flew  on  to  the  next  flower.  If  not  him, 
Melanie  would  dangle  some  other  amiable  shal- 
low pate  at  her  girdle.  Still  now  and  then  the 
world,  that  fashionable  world  with  the  tenets  of 
which  he  was  not  in  sympathy,  demanded  a 
visible  marital  sanction  for  such  intercourse. 
If  he,  the  busy  doctor,  walked  through  the  Arco 
rooms  once  with  her,  she  could  amuse  herself 
for  weeks  in  her  own  way.  Curious  idea, 
that!  He  had  long  ago  made  up  his  mind 
that  since  they  could  not  unite  their  aims,  he 


The  Garden  of  Eden  131 

must  do  his  own  work,  which,  small  as  it  seemed 
in  comparison  with  the  need  that  appealed  to 
him  on  every  side,  was  better  worth  doing  than 
to  dance  attendance  on  his  wife  in  drawing- 
rooms.  He  believed,  moreover,  that  she  had 
a  right  to  choose  her  mode  of  life,  even  this 
that  fascinated  her  and  in  which  she  knew  no 
satiety.  « 

But  as  he  saw  the  sullen  exasperation  on  her 
face,  the  face  of  Egon's  mother,  a  vague  self- 
reproach  oppressed  him  as  when  his  boys  had 
stood  before  him  that  morning.  She  was  no 
happier  than  they,  than  he.  She  could  not  be 
other  than  she  was.  They  were  yoked  to- 
gether for  life,  and  at  no  point  did  their  spirits 
meet.  Yet  somewhere  was  a  wrong  —  to  her 
also  —  since  she  was  not  happy.  What  more 
could  he  have  done,  could  he  still  do,  except 
to  sacrifice  his  profession,  to  content  her? 

Something  in  the  pose  of  the  head,  the 
averted  gaze,  the  bitterness  of  the  mouth,  re- 
minded him  of  his  first  meeting  with  her,  —  an 
August  noon,  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  before, 
a  long  hotel  stairway,  a  mother  and  daughter 
coming  up,  he  descending.  The  girl,  sixteen 
or  seventeen,  apparently  tired  and  warm,  sud- 
denly thrust  her  umbrella  and  a  parcel  into 
the  mother's  hands.  It  had  amused  him  that 


132  The  Garden  of  Eden 

the  mother,  without  remonstrance,  accepted  the 
additional  burden ;  and  he  had  not  viewed  the 
incident  from  a  pedagogic  point  of  view. 
Afterwards  he  had  forgotten  the  bit  of  school- 
girl ill-breeding,  for  Melanie  could  be  piquant, 
elf-like,  and  untiringly  gay.  But  now  he  re- 
membered that  the  mother  took  the  umbrella 
as  she  took  all  impertinence,  petulance,  and 
tempers  from  her  daughters,  and  gave  no  an- 
swer except,  at  times,  in  kind ;  and  gave  no 
help  or  guidance,  and  craved  the  hollow  things 
they  craved,  and  none  better.  And  because  it 
seemed  to  him  that  Melanie's  selfishness  was  a 
disease,  nurtured  from  the  start  as  gout  is  fed 
with  sugar,  he  looked  now  at  her  specula- 
tively,  wistfully,  as  upon  a  patient  whose  case 
is  chronic,  yet  for  whom  he  fain  would  find 
some  magic  cure.  Beside,  with  another  man 
she  might  have  become  a  different  woman. 
Another  man  she  might,  perhaps,  have  loved. 
Such  thoughts,  and  vivid,  repellent  pictures  of 
the  past,  flitted  through  his  mind  drearily, 
hopelessly. 

In  all  his  personality,  which  through  no 
fault  of  her  own  or  his  she  found  unsym- 
pathetic,—  for  she  liked  dancing  men,  not 
scholars ;  and  chattering  men,  not  thinkers ; 
and  men  who  trifled  elegantly,  not  men  ardent 


The  Garden  of  Eden  133 

and  tenacious  in  work,  —  nothing  vexed  her 
more  than  the  mild  and  enigmatic  gaze  of 
those  clear  eyes. 

"  I  did  not  marry  you  to  sit  in  the  house 
and  spin,  Aurel !  "  she  exclaimed,  sharply. 

"I  know  you  did  not,"  he  returned,  calmly. 

"  Orlasays—  " 

"  It  is  better  not  to  invoke  Orla  in  our  pri- 
vate matters,"  he  answered,  his  voice  striking 
a  deeper  note. 

She  retorted  still  more  sharply  than  before 
bitter,  querulous  words,  and  once  she  stamped 
her  foot. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  One  of  her  scenes 
was  apparently  beginning.  Beside  being  a 
horror  to  him,  it  might  absorb  more  time  than 
the  reception.  Three  patients  he  had  prom- 
ised to  see  that  evening.  He  must  also  cast 
one  glance  at  the  last  woman  operated,  must 
go  a  half-hour  by  rail  to  a  rather  fiendish  but 
pitiable  old  woman  who  had  frightful  convul- 
sions of  laughter  and  screaming,  and  was  in- 
clined to  slay  her  attendants  if  he  failed  to 
appear  when  expected.  No  other  person  had 
the  least  influence  on  her,  but  him  she  in  a 
measure  obeyed.  However,  she  peremptorily 
demanded  him  three  times  a  week.  It  was  an 
exhausting  and  somewhat  depressing  pilgrim- 


The  Garden  of  Eden 

age,  but  a  desire  to  protect  her  timid  relatives, 
beside  certain  associations  of  the  past,  together 
with  a  queer  sympathy  with  the  unreasonable 
old  party,  who  had  been  a  famous  beauty  in 
her  time,  and  clever,  induced  him  to  perform 
this  quasi  constable  service,  and  compel  her  to 
keep  the  peace. 

M^lanie  observed  him  closely.  Their  dis- 
cussion was  by  no  means  novel.  Both  knew 
how  it  would  end. 

"  They  will  not  probably  all  die  if  they  do 
not  see  you  until  to-morrow  night,"  she  said, 
with  hard  flippancy. 

"  To-morrow  evening  I  shall  be  out  of  town 
in  consultation,  on  the  following  evening  also. 
Melanie,  if  you  cannot  go  alone  to  a  house 
where  you  are  so  intimate  — - " 

"  I  cannot,"  she  declared  with  vehemence. 
"  Exactly  there,  not.  Besides,  I  go  enough 
without  you.  It  rouses  comment.  It  does 
not  look  well.  One  might  as  well  be  not 
married,  as  married  to  a  man  who  systemati- 
cally neglects  one." 

"And  you  could  not  stay  at  home?"  he 
asked,  gravely. 

"  Aurel !  Why  should  I  stay  at  home?  "  she 
demanded. 

"  Since  you  think  you  cannot  go  alone,"  he 


The  Garden  of  Eden 

continued.  "  I  will  drive  over  with  you  at  ten, 
go  in  with  you,  and  slip  away." 

"  Ten  is  too  late,"  she  complained ;  "  far 
too  late  for  their  regular  At  Home." 

"  It  is  the  best  I  can  do  for  you,"  he  said, 
and  rang  for  Wolf. 

"  Just  bring  me  a  little  soup  and  a  bit  of 
meat  here,  will  you,  Wolf,  instantly,  and  ask 
the  children  to  come  here  a  moment;  and 
have  the  coupe  drive  round.  I  must  catch 
the  7.15  train.  I  shall  be  back  at  ten  minutes 
before  ten.  Please  have  my  bath  and  evening 
clothes  in  readiness." 

At  Count  Arco's  that  evening  Monica  was 
standing  by  a  plush  portiere  as  a  Russian  be- 
gan to  play  Chopin's  Concerto  in  F  minor. 
She  had  heard  it  so  often  in  the  music-room 
of  the  dear  old  house  on  the  height  above 
the  bay.  She  passed  unobserved  under  the 
portiere  and  wandered  on,  too  moved  to  listen 
to  that  music  among  gay  women  and  florid 
officers.  The  adagio  from  Beethoven's  Patht- 
tique  followed.  Its  passionate  undertone  sent 
her  farther  and  farther  from  the  large  drawing- 
room,  until,  quite  unnerved,  she  found  herself 
alone  in  a  small  boudoir.  She  could  still  hear 
the  piano,  and  all  her  past  throbbed  in  those 
wonderful  tones. 


136  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Presently  the  daughter  of  the  house  sang  a 
small  song  in  English,  —  the  Countess  Arco 
was  American,  —  which  made  no  demand  what- 
ever upon  her  emotions,  and  she  was  about  to 
return  to  her  friends  the  Lorings  when  she 
happened  to  intelligently  perceive  on  the  wall 
before  her  the  object  at  which  she  had  been 
blankly  gazing,  —  an  interesting  old  relief  in 
ivory. 

It  represented  Iphigenia  in  Aulis  at  the  in- 
stant preceding  the  interception  of  the  goddess 
—  Clytemnestra  and  a  group  of  women  at  the 
right,  their  mouths  distorted  with  wailing ;  the 
warriors,  Agamemnon  apparently  swallowing 
his  grief;  in  the  centre  the  gentle  victim  with 
bared  young  breast ;  nearest  her,  meeting  her 
innocent  tender  broken  gaze,  Calchas,  and  just 
behind  her  strongly  poised  with  knife  upraised 
for  the  fatal  stroke  the  other  stately  priest, 
splendid  of  raiment,  bay-crowned,  hovering 
over  her  with  something  officially  mournful, 
deprecating,  unctuous,  suave  in  their  atti- 
tudes and  their  long-bearded,  handsome  astute 
faces.  She  was  absorbed  in  study  of  the 
yellow,  time-stained  ivory,  the  curious  move- 
ment of  all  the  lines  as  of  growing  trees  or 
flames  — 

"They   were   the  doctors  of  those  times," 


The  Garden  of  Eden  137 

remarked  a  mild  voice  in  agreeable  English  at 
her  side,  the  careful  English  of  the  educated 
foreigner.  "  That  handsome  old  rascal  in  the 
foreground  is  telling  her  it  will  really  not  hurt 
her  very  much.  Seventeenth  century  work,  is 
it  not?"  he  asked  gently,  sauntered  on,  and 
disappeared  through  a  side  door. 

"  Who  is  the  man  with  the  beautiful  pro- 
file?" Monica  asked  young  Loring,  familiarly 
known  as  Lai,  who  joined  her  shortly  after. 

"  Perhaps  you  mean  me,"  said  the  boy,  with 
an  amiable  grin. 

"  It  is  a  different  style  of  beauty  from 
yours." 

"  Don't  chaff.  A  man  has  no  business  to 
be  beautiful.  I  have  heard  no  end  of  girls 
say  they  do  not  like  handsome  men." 

"  That  is  fortunate,"  she  returned,  dryly. 
"  Handsome  men  are  rare." 

"  Come,  I  say !  You  don't  really  like 
beauty  men  do  you?  You  don't  think  them 
dandies?" 

"  It  was  not  a  dandy,  nor  was  —  " 

"  I  would  rather  have  fifty  thousand  dollars 
a  year  than  the  nose  of  Apollo." 

She  looked  silently  at  the  relief.  Among 
the  strong  aquiline  faces  was  one  not  unlike 
the  face  she  loved  best. 


138  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  But  your  man  with  the  profile.  Was  he 
in  uniform?"  resumed  the  boy. 

"  No.  It  does  not  matter  at  all.  I  merely 
happened  to  ask." 

"  It  cannot  be  Baron  Barotinsky.  You  can't 
see  his  profile  for  his  cheeks  and  teeth  and  his 
flamboyant  moustache  —  flamboyant  is  good. 
And  Baron  Lobanow  has  the  distinguished 
profile  of  a  bird  of  prey,  —  all  right,  you 
know,  and  racy,  —  but  not  what  a  young  lady 
calls  beautiful.  Then  there  is  old  Baron  von 
Uhlenhorst,  major  in  times  past.  He  has  a 
profile  ready  for  anything,  but  flattened  as 
with  a  flatiron.  I  know  you  don't  mean  him. 
His  gay  son  Leo,  who  flirts  awfully  with  Miss 
McCarroll,  and  all  the  time  looks  after  the 
main  chance  with  the  Countess  Florence  Arco 
—  well,  you  surely  can't  mean  him?  Selbitz 
has  a  profile,  but  it  all  runs  to  nose." 

"  I  mean  no  one  at  all.  This  was  a  man 
I  never  before  saw.  It  is  utterly  unimpor- 
tant. You  are  a  dreadful  gossip  for  a  boy  of 
eighteen." 

"  It  cannot  be  old  General  Ehrenstein,"  he 
went  on,  quite  unabashed.  "  He  has  a  very 
honorable  profile  but  it  is  sixty-eight  years 
old.  Those  other  fellows  in  there,  there's 
nothing  beautiful  about  them,  unless  it  is  their 


The  Garden  of  Eden  139 

impudence.  The  English  ambassador  —  well, 
he  may  be  awfully  clever,  but  he  has  no 
more  profile  than  I  have." 

She  sjiill  studied  the  ivory  and  let  him  prattle. 

Once  upon  the  trail,  he  would  not  desist. 

"  Profile  —  profile  —  man  with  a  profile,"  he 
muttered.  "  I  know  an  actor  with  a  profile." 

"  This  man  was  not  an  actor." 

"  Prince  Ruprecht  has  a  profile,  but  he 
wears  uniform.  Beside,  he  is  not  here  this 
evening,  so  far  as  I  know.  What  did  the 
profile  condescend  to  belong  to?  To  what 
sort  of  chap  otherwise,  I  mean?" 

"  Lawrence,  it  was  the  merest  accident  that 
I  asked  you." 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  profiles  must  be  attached  to 
something,"  persisted  the  boy.  "  They  cannot 
walk  about  in  thin  air  —  unless  they  are  astrals. 
Was  this  fellow  an  astral?" 

"  Quite  possibly." 

"  Miss  Randolph,  I  must  ferret  out  this 
mystery.  Now,  suppose  there  were  a  murder, 
and  your  profile  were  suspected,  and  you  were 
witness,  how  would  you  describe  him?" 

She  looked  at  the  boy  wondering,  and 
answered : 

"  Since  you  insist,  he  is  a  man  of  middle 
height,  slight,  elegant,  has  good  shoulders,  and 


140  The  Garden  of  Eden 

moves  well.  His  hand  is  unusual,  perfect  in 
shape,  no  flesh,  yet  not  bony,  — a  sensitive  hand, 
with  faultless  nails.  The  hand  I  saw  plainly. 
As  to  the  face  —  I  hardly  looked  at  him,  you 
understand — he  stood  a  little  behind  me,  and 
spoke  so  simply  —  quite  with  my  thoughts  — 
so  that  it  scarcely  surprised  me  to  hear  a 
voice,  and  I  met  his  glance  only  as  he  was 
turning  to  go;  but  I  saw  keen  eyes,  deep- 
set,  color  unknown,  —  a  slight  smile  which 
I  suspect  is  surface  —  light — an  immensely 
thoughtful  face,  a  noble  air  —  repose.  I  hardly 
know  how  to  express  it,  but  as  if  he  had 
nothing  in  the  world  to  do  all  the  time  that 
there  is  —  plain  evening  dress — no  decora- 
tions; that  is  all  I  saw,  except,  as  he  turned 
away,  the  pure  profile." 

"  Great  Scott !  And  that  is  the  way  girls 
purl  on  when  they  do  not  even  look  at  a  man ! 
My  dear  Miss  Randolph,  I  assure  you  I  could 
not  give  you  so  minute  a  description  of  my 
own  father.  I  should  say  he  was  an  awfully 
good  old  chap  in  a  gray  coat.  Or  is  it  be- 
cause you  are  an  author?"  the  saucy  boy 
demanded  with  his  first^symptom  of  respect. 

"  I  am  no  author,"  she  retorted,  with  some 
discomfort.  "  I  only  happened  to  write  some- 
thing that  they  published." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  141 

"Wait  a  bit.  I'm  after  the  classic  profile. 
A  man  who  looks  as  if  he  has  nothing  to  do. 
A  man  who  has  all  the  time  that  there  is. 
Profile  —  ah  —  I  've  got  you  !  That  heavenly 
repose  can  belong  only  to  the  great  Arenberg. 
Oh,  Miss  Randolph,  I  am  evidently  a  born  de- 
tective. I  shall  have  to  tell  my  father  it 's 
no  use  sending  me  to  Freiburg  to  be  a  mining 
engineer.  It  is  the  famous  Arenberg,  as  sure 
as  you  're  born." 

"Why  is  he  so  famous?"  asked  Monica, 
still  studying  the  growing  fibres  and  move- 
ment of  the  ivory. 

"  Well,  of  course  I  don't  mean  he  is  fa- 
mous like  Buffalo  Bill  or  Zimmy,  you  know. 
Still,  he  is  a  very  good  sort.  Known  here  as 
a  fine  surgeon,  and  recognized  in  London.  I 
say,  you  don't  like  London,  do  you?  Stupid, 
after  New  York.  Arenberg  is  a  very  good 
fellow.  So  much  I  must  say  for  him.  They 
say  he  takes  from  the  rich  and  gives  to  the 
poor.  A  sort  of  Robin  Hood,  you  know, 
among  doctors.  Then  he  is  a  born  baron, 
and  drops  his  title.  When  a  duke  dislocates 
his  arm  and  dares  to  call  Arenberg,  they  say 
he  has  to  sell  a  farm  or  forest  of  his  ancestral 
estate.  Arenberg  is  a  socialist,  an  anarchist, 
a  heaven  knows  what.  All  the  same,  he  is 


142  The  Garden  of  Eden 

a  swell,  and  the  fashion.  All  the  women  in 
love  with  him,  all  the  men  depending  upon 
him.  A  person  of  importance,  don't  you 
know?  " 

"  He  seemed  so  very  simple,"  said  Monica. 

"  Oh  yes,  they  are  sly  foxes,  doctors, 
don't  you  know?  I  say,  you  don't  like 
doctors,  now,  do  you?  Sly  foxes,  doctors  — 
frauds,  you  know." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  like  doctors,"  said  Monica 
gently,  turning  away. 

"  All  right,"  he  responded,  cheerfully.  "  Then 
I  '11  tell  my  father  it  is  no  use  to  try  to  make 
a  detective  of  me.  I  must  study  medicine.  I 
say,  Miss  Randolph,  are  you  tired?  because 
I  intentionally  forgot  to  tell  you  that  papa, 
who  was  buttonholing  an  abbd  in  the  seventh 
heaven  of  theological  argument,  told  me  I 
was  not  to  hang  about  and  bore  you  to  death, 
but  to  say  when  you  were  tired  he  was  ready 
to  go  home." 

Arenberg  had  quitted  the  tempestuous  old 
witch  in  Bliithenheim,  returned  to  town,  seen 
his  most  pressing  patients  and  the  woman  at 
the  hospital,  reached  his  home  ten  minutes 
after  ten  instead  of  before  ten,  still  in  time  to 
make  a  hurried  toilette,  and  drive  with  a  some- 
what incensed  wife  to  Court  Arco's,  whence  he 


The  Garden  of  Eden  143 

beat  a  speedy  retreat.  The  night  was  starry 
and  cool.  With  a  sense  of  relief  he  walked  on 
through  quiet  streets.  "  For  a  tame  man," 
he  thought,  "  I  have  a  singular  hatred  of 
crowded  drawing-rooms.  That  thoughtful  girl 
alone  in  the  little  room,  watching  her  fair  sister 
Iphigenia  so  wistfully,  likes  them  no  better,  it 
would  seem." 

Wolf,  sleepy  but  dignified,  announced  that 
the  Gunthers  had  just  telephoned  three  times. 
Somebody  was  badly  burned.  Wolfs  manner 
expressed  grave  doubt  of  people's  tact  in 
mentioning  such  things  so  late  at  night. 

Arenberg's  coat  was  half  off.  He  pulled  it 
on  again,  went  into  his  study,  filled  his  pock- 
ets with  a  few  things  usually  wanting  in  the 
best  houses,  and  made  for  the  hall  door. 

"  The  carriage,  sir?  " 

"  No.  The  horses  must  go  over  to  Count 
Arco's  once  more.  That  is  enough  for  them." 

"  May  I  not  get  a  cab,  sir?     It  is  so  far." 

"  Thanks.  I  can  get  up  there  quicker  on 
foot,  by  cross  paths." 

On  his  return,  very  late,  he  passed  a  Volk's 
Hall,  gay  with  the  sound  of  violins  and  danc- 
ing feet. 

"  Lo,  the  poor  working-man,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing, "  may  he  get  his  eight  hours !  " 


144  The  Garden  of  Eden 


VI 


No  power  on  earth  could  have  convinced 
Monica,  at  home,  what  a  fair  semblance  of 
happiness  two  or  three  scrawled  pages  might 
create  in  a  homesick  heart.  It  was  six 
months  now  since  her  Hegira,  and  Keith's 
letters  came  regularly.  His  zeal  surprised 
himself,  for  no  man  disliked  and  shirked 
letter-writing  more  than  he,  and  his  corre- 
spondents in  general  were  but  meagrely 
informed  by  his  strong  and  interesting 
personality.  To  her,  however,  he  found  him- 
self writing  freely;  and  some  fugitive  charm 
of  his  presence,  and  much  of  his  good  heart, 
crept  into  those  small  and  hasty  pages, 
breathing  devotion,  —  a  deep  but  unaccent- 
uated  sadness  apt  to  deviate  into  jest,  and 
never  failing  in  the  manliness  of  steady  ap- 
proval of  her  course. 

When  such  a  letter  was  due,  every  post- 
man's ring  was  a  peal  of  joy-bells,  electric, 
inspiring.  And  that  bit  of  paper!  She 
kissed  it  until  her  eyes  were  dim  with  tears, 
and  wept  until  she  laughed  for  gladness. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  145 

Sometimes  she  would  tear  open  the  envelope 
ravenously;  sometimes  she  turned  it  up  and 
down,  and  over  and  over,  gloating  over  the 
superscription  and  postage  stamps,  and  stroked 
it  with  lingering  touch,  postponing  essential 
delight  with  sybarite  cunning.  By  day  she 
carried  his  latest  letter  about  with  her;  by 
night  it  lay  under  her  pillow,  and  if  she 
waked  she  touched  it  lovingly,  was  comforted, 
and  slept  again. 

Mrs.  Randolph's  letters  to  her  daughter 
were,  upon  the  whole,  better  letters  than 
Keith  Lowell's,  —  longer,  more  frequent, 
most  dear  to  Monica,  and  unspeakable  sus- 
tenance. For  these  too  she  waited,  these 
too  she  read  and  re-read  tenderly ;  but  it  must 
be  admitted  she  put  them  neatly  on  file,  and 
did  not  blur  them  and  rumple  their  edges  by 
close  contact  with  her  person.  For  nature, 
which  now  and  then  leads  the  best  of  us  a 
pretty  dance,  permits  a  girl  to  receive  with 
perfect  sobriety  of  demeanor  the  most  loving 
effusions  penned  by  the  mother  who  bore 
her,  while  a  word  from  the  hand  of  a  man 
whom  she  has  known  but  a  span  of  months 
whirls  her  off  upon  a  series  of  actions,  incal- 
culable, idiotic,  and  rapturous. 

Mrs.   Randolph  wrote  in  excellent  spirits, 


146  The  Garden  of  Eden 

and  with  the  sure  hope  of  joining  Monica 
soon  and  going  with  her  to  Italy,  Greece,  and 
farther.  In  the  meantime  a  suitable  tenant 
for  the  house  must  be  found,  for,  obviously, 
one  could  not  let  it  and  its  penates  to  the 
unknown  first  comer  and  his  horde  of  wild 
children  armed  with  jackknives.  Mrs.  Ran- 
dolph alluded  with  vague  and  sanguine  lordli- 
ness to  certain  speculations  which  should  pave 
the  way  to  a  nomadic  life  of  delightful  and 
wide  range.  In  her  first  letters  she  men- 
tioned Keith  briefly  and  kindly,  making  this 
concession  to  the  situation;  for  many  weeks 
she  ignored  his  existence;  toward  spring  she 
began  to  express  herself  oracularly,  with 
vailed  and  anxious  pleading,  in  regard  to  the 
influence  of  time  and  distance  upon  human 
hearts,  the  proverbial  fickleness  of  lovers,  the 
ephemeral  and  illusive  character  of  woman's 
dreams,  the  transitoriness  of  all  mundane 
things,  and  similar  themes  not  wholly  neg- 
lected by  the  poets,  whom,  indeed,  Mrs. 
Randolph  summoned,  in  copious  quotation, 
to  her  aid.  Monica,  persuaded  of  the  inde- 
structibility of  true  love,  smiled  sadly  over 
this  eloquence,  and  did  not  suspect  that  it 
had  a  definite  trend,  or  that  anything  further 
could  be  demanded  of  her  after  she  had  put 


The  Garden  of  Eden  147 

four  thousand  miles  of  land  and  sea  between 
her  and  the  man  she  loved.  But  one  April 
day,  when  the  air  was  bracing  in  the  shade 
and  enervating  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  earth 
was  thrilled  with  unrest  and  pulsating  with 
promise,  and  the  mute  souls  of  things  were 
swelling  and  bursting,  eager  to  fulfil  their 
destiny,  Monica  received  two  letters;  one, 
more  than  usually  ardent,  spring  throbbing 
through  it  all;  one,  clever,  carefully  planned, 
breathing  affection,  reason,  solicitude,  and  a 
mother's  prayer  for  that  mother's  peace  of 
mind,  in  the  sacred  name  of  mother-love,  to 
make  the  one  remaining  sacrifice  and  give  up 
all  communication  with  Keith. 

Monica,  starting  out  to  walk  had  met  the 
postman  at  the  door  and  taken  those  letters 
into  the  woods,  where  she  read  them  many 
times.  Always  these  two !  Always  the  con- 
flict !  What  subtle  influence  linked  them  so 
strangely  together  since  that  first  night  when 
he  was  summoned  by  her  imperative  need. 
Was  it  only  from  that  night  ?  Or  did  it  all 
begin  ages  before,  in  some  forgotten  pre- 
existence  ?  That  letters  from  these  dear  pro- 
tagonists should  arrive  not  infrequently  by  the 
same  steamer  was  no  more  than  natural ;  but 
why,  if  Keith's  was  specially  ardent,  should 


148  The  Garden  of  Eden 

hers  reveal  an  inexplicable  aptness,  a  pre- 
science, divining  his  thoughts  and  seeking  to 
counteract  their  potency?  Monica  was  con- 
scious that  her  mother  was  not  as  the  mother 
in  comfortable  love  affairs,  who  amiably  oblit- 
erates herself,  or  as  that  forgotten  or  disre- 
garded nonentity,  the  average  mother  in 
fiction.  This  mother  held  her  ground,  un- 
tiring, resolute.  Even  her  silence  was  elo- 
quent with  thought  and  steadfast  purpose. 

To-day  her  words  were  well  chosen.  Her 
arguments  would  have  convinced  every  dis- 
passionate reader.  They  impressed  Monica 
profoundly,  and  filled  her  heart  with  the  old 
hot  tumult,  the  conflict  of  reason  and  emo- 
tion, of  conscience  and  desire,  of  truth  and 
sophistry.  She  had  gained  in  these  months 
no  forgetfulness,  but  some  control,  some 
little  quiet  and  patience.  Again,  all  was 
swept  away.  By  what?  By  a  few  written 
words,  lifeless  things,  mere  marks  made  with 
pen  and  ink  on  white  paper,  yet  potent,  as 
she  sat  there  on  a  bench  beneath  a  great 
linden-tree  in  a  still  game-park,  where  beauti- 
ful wild  creatures  lived  that  kings  and  dukes 
might  slay  them  —  to  transport  her  to  her  old 
home,  to  reveal  to  her  in  the  glow  of  flicker- 
ing firelight  a  fair  and  troubled  face  yearning 


The  Garden  of  Eden  149 

over  a  girl  wretched  and  broken  in  spirit, 
crouching  at  her  mother's  knee,  and  to  rein- 
voke  from  the  silence  the  vivid  sound  of  their 
voices,  their  sighs,  each  impassioned  word 
distinct,  living,  and  echoing  on  forever. 

So  still,  so  long  Monica  sat,  the  deer 
thought  she  must  be  a  queer  growth  on  the 
trunk  of  the  linden-tree  against  which  she 
leaned,  and  drew  near  and  contemplated  her 
with  soft  inquiry  in  their  lovely  eyes.  For 
these  were  tame  wild  things,  grown  fearless 
because  in  a  monarch's  domains  are  many 
game-parks,  and  the  royal  massacre  of  these 
innocents  occurred  rarely,  and  only  in  its 
appointed  time,  like  all  court  ceremonies, 
pageants,  and  diversions. 

Be  brave  and  good,  her  mother  said.  Finish 
nobly  what  she  had  nobly  begun.  To  weakly 
cling  to  what  she  had  renounced,  to  revel  in 
the  expression  of  emotion  to  a  man  from  whom 
she  had  fled,  had  neither  virtue  nor  sense. 

Singularly  enough,  in  these  words  threat- 
ening her  last  remnant  of  happiness,  was 
something  that  appealed  to  Monica,  who  did 
not  love  half  measures  and  compromises. 

Her  mother  pleaded  wisely,  subtly,  ten- 
derly, Keith's  cause  against  Monica  herself. 
It  was  cruel  to  fetter  a  man  to  whom  one 


150  The  Garden  of  Eden 

never  could  give  happiness ;  selfish  to  possess 
his  imagination  still  instead  of  summarily 
breaking  off  all  intercourse,  thereby  helping 
him  to  regain  his  repose  of  mind  and  meet 
his  duties  manfully. 

She  pleaded  well,  the  mother,  and  even 
though  Keith's  letter,  already  much  crumpled 
and  blurred,  was  pleading  passionately  against 
her,  she  might  have  won  her  cause  but  for  one 
inadvertence. 

"  Social  laws  are  for  the  good  of  man- 
kind. No  one  can  oppose  them  with  im- 
punity. Obey  them  and  trust  the  future," 
she  urged. 

Trust  the  future !  Those  three  words  had 
at  first  no  special  significance  to  Monica,  but 
as  she  read  and  re-read  them,  they  became 
portentous.  Behind  them  she  perceived  some- 
thing lowering  in  ambush,  — a  vague  figure,  a 
Major  Lynton  or  Kitty's  "Prince."  Again, 
yet  more  sharply  defined,  she  saw,  as  on  that 
evening  long  ago,  one  faint  shade  of  worldli- 
ness  in  that  pure  affection,  one  hint  even  of 
selfishness  in  those  incontrovertibly  noble 
and  moral  views,  and  was  dismayed,  as  we 
all  are,  when  suddenly  a  stranger  looks  out  of 
our  nearest  and  dearest 's  eyes.  Beside,  the 
slightest  manipulation  of  souls  is  a  crime  of 


The  Garden  of  Eden  151 

,  the  soul  discovering,  never 


condones. 

Her  mother  was  right,  a  thousand  times 
right.  Reason,  logic,  conventional  morality, 
social  laws,  were  all  on  her  side,  —  always  on 
her  side.  But  not  to  these  had  Monica  yielded. 
Ah,  no  !  Not  for  these  did  she  sit  here  alone 
in  a  foreign  land.  For  Love's  own  sake  had 
she  fled  from  love.  Her  mother  was  right. 
But  Keith  and  she  herself,  were  they  also  not 
right?  Had  their  love  no  rights  at  all,  not 
even  after  their  renunciation,  —  a  right  to 
this  one  last  boon,  the  letters?  Cold  and 
pale,  indeed,  were  they,  compared  with  the 
human  touch,  the  voice  and  smile  of  the 
unattainable  beloved,  yet  warmer  and  dearer 
than  all  else  on  earth.  Keith's  letter  became 
suddenly  more  crumpled  and  blurred,  and  her 
soft-eyed  spectators  scampered  off,  mistrust- 
ful of  such  conduct. 

Her  mother  was  good,  but  Keith,  he,  too, 
no  less.  Her  mother  was  large-hearted  and 
infinitely  loving.  But  had  any  mother,  even 
in  thought,  the  right  to  dispose  of  her  child's 
destiny  ?  To  seek  to  direct,  if  even  so  little, 
her  affections?  And  the  social  laws  con- 
demning her  and  Keith?  Were  they  so  im- 
maculate? Who  made  them?  Whence  did 


152.  The  Garden  of  Eden 

they  arise?  They,  too,  would  sanction  her 
marriage  with  the  "  Prince  "  on  the  morrow. 
"Then  they  are  low  things,"  she  said  solemnly 
in  the  stillness,  looking  up  into  the  intense 
blue  of  the  sky  and  upon  the  noble  and  tran- 
quil reaches  framed  by  groups  of  oaks  and 
beech-trees. 

"  Whom  does  our  correspondence  harm  ?  " 
No  one.  There  Monica  was  less  honest,  and 
some  voice  in  her  demanded  how  she  knew 
this  so  positively,  since  certain  matters  were 
remote  and  beyond  her  observation  and  juris- 
diction. 

Sorrow  has  its  rights,  she  thought,  and 
loneliness  and  love  in  exile.  If  there  were 
wrong  in  these  letters,  then  her  heart  and 
thoughts,  the  very  essence  of  her  being,  all 
was  hopelessly  wrong.  Right?  Wrong? 
How  confusing  were  such  words !  For  on 
this  earth  right  clashed  with  right,  and  when 
the  stronger  was  victorious  the  weaker  right 
seemed  then  a  wrong.  She  smiled  bitterly. 
Social  laws  cannot  undermine  you,  though  I 
shake  my  puny  fist.  I  never  wished  or  sought 
to  oppose  you.  I  am  but  a  weak  soft  thing, 
and,  I  believe,  not  wicked  in  my  heart,  not 
precisely  an  outlaw  by  election.  But  those 
letters,  I  will  not  yield.  Can  I  do  harm  at 


The  Garden  of  Eden  1 53 

this  distance !  I  might  as  well  be  writing  to 
Lilian  in  the  shades,  he  is  so  far  —  so  far 
from  me  — 

Spring  was  pleading  for  the  lovers  in  her 
own  pulses  in  Keith's  letter,  in  the  marvel- 
lous air,  in  all  the  mysterious  yearning  of 
nature,  in  the  sweet  call  of  the  blackbird  and 
the  thrush,  in  the  free  flight  of  a  far-off  swal- 
low. In  a  broad  hollow  the  light  breeze 
stirred  a  field  of  cuckoo  flowers  in  waves  of 
lilac  foam,  —  a  sea  of  bloom  fair  enough  for 
the  birth  of  Aphrodite,  —  and  Monica,  look- 
ing up,  beheld  the  struggle  of  the  great 
linden-tree  bursting  forth  in  myriads  of  tiny 
pale-green  heart-shaped  leaves  —  hearts,  not 
heads.  That  night  a  message  flashed  under 
the  ocean :  /  cannot  and  live.  It  was  her  only 
reply.  In  no  letter  to  Monica  did  Mrs. 
Randolph,  wise  and  loving,  ever  revert  to  the 
subject.  She  waited  —  loving  and  wise. 

It  happened  about  this  time  that  Monica, 
to  her  exceeding  amazement,  found  herself 
promoted  to  the  dignity  of  an  editorial  chair. 
Since  we  are  aware  that  life  is  a  mere  suc- 
cession of  surprises,  it  is  surprising  that  we 
ever  permit  ourselves  to  be  surprised,  she 
reflected  sapiently,  the  first  morning  that  a 
courteous  publisher  sent  her  home  from  her 


1 54  The  Garden  of  Eden 

inarduous  labors  in  his  very  correct  coupe1; 
nevertheless,  great  was  her  surprise,  and  she 
was  conscious  of  being  tossed  about  curiously, 
as  if  some  higher  power  were  idly  playing  at 
cup  and  ball. 

A  magazine  of  English  excerpts  had  been 
plunging  on  rather  headlessly  since  the  death 
of  the  poet  who  had  originated  and  conducted 
it.  Gravely  introduced  by  Mr.  Loring,  its 
publisher  called  upon  her  one  day  to  offer  her 
the  editorship. 

"The  idea  is  preposterous,"  she  declared, 
promptly.  "I  am  not  at  all  that  sort  of  a 
person;  I  could  never  do  it." 

She  was  genially  assured  that  her  duties 
would  be  as  small  as  her  salary,  that  The 
Nosegay  ran  in  grooves  and  under  the  guidance 
of  trained  men,  but  sadly  needed  somebody 
capable  of  rapidly  dipping  into  all  kinds  of 
current  light  literature  in  the  English  tongue. 
For  this  sort  of  dissipation  she  could  not 
deny  a  certain  aptitude.  But  her  stay,  in  all 
probability,  would  be  so  short.  "At  least, 
while  you  stay,"  begged  the  publisher. 
"Very  well,  while  I  stay,"  she  agreed. 

She  had  no  reason  to  repent  her  decision, 
for  stacks  of  English  books,  magazines,  re- 
views, and  journals  were  sent  to  her  rooms,  — 


The  Garden  of  Eden  155 

this  rich  prospect  was  indeed  what  tempted 
her,  —  and  there  was  nothing  of  this  sort 
which  she  could  not  have  by  adding  its  name 
to  the  already  generous  list.  Whatever  she 
desired  in  German  or  French  she  needed  but 
to  mention.  She  had  also  her  own  sanctum  in 
a  large  publishing  house,  and  the  men  on  her 
staff,  highly  edified  by  the  advent  of  a  chief 
in  petticoats,  by  her  inexperience  and  meagre 
German,  were  exceedingly  good  to  her,  made 
all  things  easy,  and  did  whatever  they  could 
of  her  work.  Men,  upon  the  path  of  this  lone 
pilgrim,  were  not  thus  far,  it  must  be  conceded, 
monsters. 

In  the  make-up  of  The  Nosegay  under 
Monica's  dispensation  certain  things  always 
remained  a  mystery  to  its  editor-in-chief.  It 
devolved  upon  her  to  choose  for  it  a  serial 
novel,  short  tales,  essays,  poems,  and  anec- 
dotes. In  this  purely  literary  field  she  was 
autocratic.  She  was  also  supposed  to  select 
its  illustrations.  Now,  the  serial  was  illus- 
trated and  dear.  The  stream  of  literature 
flowing  in  to  nourish  the  small  magazine  was 
enormous.  It  was  altogether  an  expensive 
caprice  of  the  publisher,  who  had  a  special 
fancy  for  this  feeble,  foreign  reprint  in  the 
midst  of  his  vast  German  enterprises  of  world- 


156  The  Garden  of  Eden 

wide  fame.  The  Nosegay  was  never  expected 
to  prove  remunerative,  and  in  this  respect 
certainly  disappointed  no  one.  But  a  certain 
frugality  of  mind  Monica  was,  nevertheless, 
instructed  to  exhibit  in  her  choice  of  illustra- 
tions. Unexplored  piles  of  pictures  which 
the  publishers  had  been  reproducing  for  a 
quarter-century  in  all  sorts  of  periodicals, 
lay  at  her  disposal.  These  coarse  prints  she 
was  expected  to  make  palatable  by  an  engag- 
ing text.  A  limited  supply  of  fine  cliches, 
the  best  modern  work  from  Paris  and  Sweden, 
were  always  at  hand,  and  Monica  was  prone 
to  toss  the  ugly  pictures  overboard,  and  fill 
one  number  of  The  Nosegay  with  fascinating 
things  which  she  ought  to  have  distributed 
through  five.  But  whenever  she  permitted 
herself  this  liberty,  some  secret  power  curbed 
her  flight.  She  might  have  read  the  proofs 
apparently  at  the  last  moment,  and  seen  the 
blank  pages  left  for  the  illustrations  of  her 
choice ;  but  when  the  fresh  Nosegay  was  handed 
her,  a  change  had  taken  place  in  its  land- 
marks: something  beautiful  had  vanished, 
and  in  its  stead  was  some  rough  print  from 
the  old  store,  something  from  Shakespeare, 
Schiller,  it  mattered  not  what,  with  a  text 
that  mattered,  alas!  still  less,  apparently. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  157 

At  all  events,  terrible  in  bald  detachment,  in 
utter  want  of  raison  d'etre,  and  crushing  in 
the  extreme  to  the  editor-in-chief,  passages 
which  may  well  be  reckoned  to  the  most 
unexpurgated  of  Shakespeare,  appeared  once 
or  twice  in  Monica's  magazine. 

Regaining  breath  and  courage,  she  would 
reason : 

"It  makes  one's  hair  stand  on  end,  but  per- 
haps they  won't  know  what  the  words  mean. 
I  hope  they  '11  not  look  them  up  in  their  dic- 
tionaries. After  all,  it  is  Shakespeare,  for- 
tunately. People  never  mind  Shakespeare  or 
the  Bible  —  I  don't  know  why,  I  'm  sure.  But 
I  must  never  again  be  careless  of  those  expen- 
sive cliches.  I  must  work  in  those  dreadful 
babies  that  look  like  advertisements  of 
Mellin's  Food." 

Trusting  too  that  he  who  fain  would  teach 
her  economy  by  these  heroic  methods  did 
not  himself  perfectly  command  the  English 
tongue,  like  Sir  Isaac  Newton's  little  dog,  did 
not  know  the  mischief  he  had  done;  dreading, 
above  all,  the  conscientiousness  and  thorough- 
ness of  the  ordinary  German  mind  in  any 
explanation;  this  mean-spirited  editor  never 
dared  to  inquire  who  set  at  naught  her 
scheme,  but  looked  calm,  grave,  and  entirely 


158  The  Garden  of  Eden 

preoccupied  by  business  when  next  she  met 
her  associates. 

Her  Answers  to  Correspondents  also  caused 
her  some  pangs.  Writing  Answers  to  Corre- 
spondents can  rarely  be,  it  is  safe  to  assume, 
enlivening  employment.  But  until  one  per- 
ceives into  how  many  forms  of  broken  English 
Germans  are  capable  of  translating  the  Lorelei 
and  the  Erlkonig,  one  hardly  suspects  the 
potentialities  of  this  office.  She  had  at  times 
forty  or  fifty  such  productions  speared  to- 
gether on  her  desk.  They  were  too  precious 
for  the  waste-basket.  Their  perusal  brought 
tears  to  the  eye  —  tears  of  bewilderment  and 
helpless  mirth.  But  Monica  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  express  this  fact  pleasingly  in  her 
answers. 

Altogether  her  connection  with  The  Nose- 
gay was  healthful.  It  occupied  her  certain 
hours  of  certain  days  regularly,  and  forced  her 
into  a  new  field  where  she  gained  some  dis- 
cipline and  a  little  technical  training,  and 
prevented  her  from  thinking  exclusively  of 
her  own  affairs.  Anything  may,  of  course, 
become  drudgery,  —  munching  bonbons,  or 
swinging  in  a  hammock,  or  kissing,  —  but 
Monica's  gleaning  in  the  best  periodical  lit- 
erature never  palled  upon  her.  After  making 


The  Garden  of  Eden  159 

her  approximate  table  of  Contents  for  weeks 
in  advance,  she  would  read  ravenously  on, 
with  the  fine  consciousness  of  fulfilling  her 
professional  duties.  Yet  she  was  so  thor- 
oughly aware  that  her  actual  work  on  The 
Nosegay  required  no  trained  intelligence,  she 
wondered  to  find  it,  too,  propelling  her  far- 
ther in  that  path  upon  which  invisible  hands 
had  long  been  pushing  her. 

There  is  truth  and  mystery  in  the  proverb 
of  the  dog  and  his  bad  name.  Why,  if  a 
woman  be  carelessly  called  pretty,  another 
witty,  another  amiable,  do  the  names  often 
enough  cling,  though  the  suggested  attributes 
be  imperceptible?  Thus  Monica  was  dubbed 
literary,  and  literary  she  was  doomed  to  re- 
main till  the  end  of  the  chapter,  with  how 
little  reason  she  who  knew  her  heart's  desire 
fain  would  have  persuaded  the  acquaintances 
who  congratulated  her  upon  her  fresh  laurels. 
"Why,  a  child  could  do  such  work,"  she 
assured  the  Frau  Professor;  but  even  that 
good  soul  did  not  believe  her. 

It  was,  indeed,  wholly  useless,  Monica  had 
long  since  discovered,  to  deny  or  deprecate 
literary  capability.  She  was  an  "author"  in 
spite  of  herself,  and  not  altogether  unlike  the 
immortal  individual  who  found  that  he  had 


160  The  Garden  of  Eden 

been  writing  prose  unawares.  If  she  said  she 
had  no  literary  ambition,  people  smiled  in- 
credulously; if  she  seemed  unconscious,  as 
she  was,  of  any  talent  or  calling,  they  thought 
it  pride  aping  humility;  and  it  would  have 
been  hopeless  to  attempt  to  explain  to  any  one 
that  which  was  to  herself  utterly  inexplicable 
and  mysterious,  —  how  in  light  response  to 
the  light  bidding  of  a  girl-friend,  with  the 
blithe  audacity  of  ignorance,  yet  purely,  since 
with  no  thought  of  the  world's  praise  or  cen- 
sure, —  like  a  shepherd  lad  who,  unabashed, 
joins  heroes  at  their  sports  and  gayly  flings 
his  rustic  crook  amid  the  shower  of  glittering 
spears,  —  she  had  written  that  idle  little  tale, 
which  had  put  her  ever  since  in  a  false  posi- 
tion. For  although  people  are  prone  to  be- 
lieve that  whatever  publishers  choose  to  print 
and  bind,  is  —  if  it  sells  —  literature,  Monica 
had  the  grace  to  know  better.  She  was, 
moreover,  insensible  to  flattery  in  regard  to  a 
book  which  she  suspected  some  being  outside 
herself  had  written.  While  her  hand,  her 
pen,  had  visibly  done  the  work,  her  brain  and 
heart  were  frequently  so  remote  and  so  heavy 
laden,  she  marvelled  at  the  merriment  of  her 
manuscript.  Confronted  by  the  first  deep 
problem  of  her  life,  impelled  with  elemental 


The  Garden  of  Eden  161 

force  toward  Keith,  yet  never  long  oblivious 
of  her  mother's  pained  and  powerful  remon- 
strance, she  wondered  at  the  indifference  of 
those  creatures  of  her  imagination.  How 
could  they  laugh  and  live  untroubled  lives? 
What  were  they?  Whence  did  they  come? 
Why  did  they  jest  when  she  was  sad?  In  a 
certain  sense  the  book  was  strange  to  her,  — 
a  bubble  on  the  deeper  current  of  her  life. 
She  forgot  its  existence  completely,  was 
frankly  uncomfortable  when  suddenly  re- 
minded of  it,  and  began  to  resent  its  cheap 
popularity  and  the  unconscionable  sales  which, 
in  the  expressive  language  of  Lai  Loring, 
were  still  booming.  Yet  she  had  no  reason 
to  be  ungrateful  to  that  little  venture.  It 
had  enabled  her  to  act  freely  in  a  crucial 
moment.  It  had  sent  her  abroad  with  one 
thousand  dollars  in  her  pocket.  With  this 
opulence  she  calmly  faced  the  world  and 
feared  nothing,  for  she  was  not  yet  acquainted 
with  money. 

No  woman,  be  she  daughter,  sister,  or  wife 
—  and  let  her  keep  her  accounts  ever  so 
prettily  —  who  simply  accepts  and  disburses 
what  others  have  toiled  for,  is  acquainted 
with  money.  Few,  indeed,  are  acquainted 
with  it,  though  its  name  is  on  every  lip,  — 


1 62  The  Garden  of  Eden 

not  the  idle  inheritor  of  millions;  not  the 
miser;  not  the  prudent  person  living  genteelly 
on  a  moderate  income ;  not  the  poor  man ; 
not  the  thief,  the  successful  merchant,  or  the 
careless  vagabond.  Only  when  one. longs  to 
help  and  save  sinking  fellow-creatures  with 
it,  longs  to  rescue  health  or  happiness  or 
life  or  honor,  watches  the  good  going  to  the 
bad  for  want  of  it,  gnashes  one's  teeth  in 
powerlessness  before  the  impossible,  yet  rises 
in  wrath  and  dares  the  impossible,  agonizes, 
assumes  mad  risks,  staggers  under  heavy 
weight,  descends  into  the  arena  and  wrestles 
for  it  amid  insult  and  jeers,  and  having  won 
it  scatters  it  broadcast,  gladly,  with  both 
hands,  knowing  it  for  the  thing  it  is,  whole- 
some in  the  right  place,  and  in  the  wrong  vile 
and  noxious,  were  that  place  the  altar  of  the 
Great  Unknown,  —  does  one  pass  through  the 
process  of  initiation  into  the  occult  knowl- 
edge of  the  mystery  of  money.  For  here, 
too,  he  who  loseth  his  life  shall  find  it,  and 
there  are  things  hidden  from  the  wise  and 
prudent  and  revealed  unto  dare-devils.  In  the 
legend,  the  kobolds  of  the  mine  become  the 
cruel  masters  of  him  who,  greedy  for  their 
gold,  approaches  them  with  flattering  mien; 
but  to  the  youth  who  commands  them  sternly, 


The  Garden  of  Eden  1 63 

treats  them  with  contumely,  buffets  and 
derides  them,  they  are  willing  slaves,  and  all 
their  ingots  of  gold  and  silver,  their  ropes  of 
rubies,  their  buckets  of  diamonds  and  pearls, 
are  his.  So  in  the  legend  of  life  —  the  fleet- 
ing vision  we  are  all  enacting  —  the  soul  who 
would  command  the  hidden  treasure  of  wealth 
must  regard  it,  and  its  loss  —  haughtily. 
Some  perception  of  these  truths  Monica  ac- 
quired in  the  course  of  time.  Many  of  them, 
indeed,  are  visible  at  a  glance.  When  Dives, 
paying  his  cab-fare,  handles  his  pennies  with 
a  certain  scrupulously  obsequious  crook  of  the 
fingers,  he  proclaims  loudly  to  the  universe 
which  is  master,  who  is  slave.  But  at  this 
period  she  perceived  little  that  was  near  her, 
because  of  the  overweening  presence  of  the 
green  pastures  and  still  waters  she  had  left  far 
behind. 

One  fact  was,  however,  clear  to  her,  indif- 
ferently as  it  pleased  her  to  regard  it.  She 
was  expected  to  earn  her  bread.  This  pros- 
pect, usually  discussed  in  anxiety  when  a  girl 
goes  forth  alone,  had  been  almost  altogether 
ignored  by  that  faithful  little  group  bent  only 
upon  getting  her  off  anywhere,  under  any 
conditions,  as  fast  and  as  far  as  possible,  as  if 
she  were  a  keg  of  dynamite.  The  trifling 


164  The  Garden  of  Eden 

matter  of  bread-winning  they  seemed  to 
think  would  take  care  of  itself.  Curiously 
enough,  it  did.  Winged  opportunities,  which 
her  betters  pursued  breathlessly  round  all 
corners,  flew  unsought  in  her  windows.  She 
received  from  a  number  of  newspapers  very 
fair  offers  for  regular  work,  and  feeling  that 
an  inscrutable  providence  assigned  queer  bur- 
dens to  feeble  backs,  she  patiently  undertook 
to  chronicle  weekly,  and  at  so  much  a  column, 
her  impressions  of  foreign  life.  Now  what 
she  chronicled  was,  in  truth,  everything  and 
anything  except  her  impressions.  She  pos- 
sessed that  evil  thing,  a  facile  pen.  With  it 
she  wrote  chitter-chatter  upon  ruined  castles, 
and  puerile  liveliness  about  Nuremberg  and 
Dresden,  and  gentle  enthusiasm  over  peasants 
—  in  short,  yards  of  merry  trash.  But  often, 
as  she  sent  off  her  copy,  the  person  in  her 
who  loved  books  with  true  love  and  reverence 
would  exclaim  in  indignant  protest :  "  I  won- 
der that  they  can  stand  another  castle !  "  and 
it  would  have  seemed  to  her  not  inappropriate 
had  her  editor,  emulating  the  humane  plea 
for  the  Western  pianist,  prefaced  her  weekly 
letter  with  the  appeal:  "Don't  shoot  the 
writer.  She  is  doing  the  best  she  knows." 
Monica  was  doing  the  best  she  knew.  Pro- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  165 

jected,  as  from  the  cannon's  mouth,  from  one 
continent  to  another,  and  from  her  own  private 
and  dear  concerns  into  a  perforce  literary 
career,  she  adjusted  herself  so  soon  as  she  had 
recovered  breath  after  the  stunned  condition 
resulting  from  these  heroic  methods  of  flight 
and  of  conversion,  to  her  new  environment. 
Inordinately  influenced  by  reminiscences  of 
other  people's  letters  of  travel,  she  innocently 
assumed  it  was  her  duty  to  prattle  about 
castles  and  peasants,  and  Nuremberg  the 
ancient,  and  Dresden  the  delightful.  But 
what  she  herself  observed,  and  thought,  it 
never  occurred  to  her  to  write  —  yet  that 
might  have  had  some  slight  worth.  And  had 
she  inadvertently  slipped  one  of  her  letters 
to  Keith  Lowell  into  an  envelope  addressed 
to  the  New  York  Panyphone,  its  readers 
might  have  been  not  a  little  surprised,  — used 
as  they  were  to  sensations,  —  but  at  least  they 
would  have  got  their  money's  worth,  perusing 
a  human  document.  So  poor  Monica  con- 
scientiously sent  to  the  printers  the  worst 
that  was  in  her,  and  the  world  told  her  she 
was  clever  to  earn  so  much  money. 

The  fact  that  many  men  now  desired  to 
mould  her  mind  ought  perhaps  to  have  con- 
vinced her  that  she  was  a  writer. 


1 66  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Good  old  Mr.  Loring  was  an  ex-Presbyte- 
rian preacher  who  had  sacrificed  the  fat 
emoluments  of  his  drowsy  parish  to  the  con- 
victions of  conscience.  Finding  himself 
preaching  dogmas  which  he  no  longer  be- 
lieved, he  sadly  resigned  his  calling,  thereby 
enduring  much  obloquy  and  vituperation  on 
the  part  of  deacons  unlike  him,  not  tempted 
by  thought,  and  by  the  local  press,  not  like 
him  over-troubled  by  scruples.  He  liked  to 
dart  into  Monica's  rooms  of  a  morning  while 
she  was  finishing  her  weekly  yard  for  the 
Panyphone.  Ostensibly  he  desired  to  look 
up  a  word  in  her  Unabridged  Dictionary; 
but  presently  he  would  seat  himself,  and 
anxiously  inquire  if  she  believed  in  the  Im- 
mortality of  the  Soul.  Monica,  engaged  upon 
her  quasi-official  report  of  the  condition  of  a 
ruined  castle,  often  succeeded  in  shirking  this 
vast  theme.  But  upon  one  occasion,  he  per- 
sisting, she  behind  time  in  her  work,  turned 
from  a  book  in  which  she  was  nervously  veri- 
fying her  architecture,  —  which,  unless  sup- 
ported by  good  authorities,  was  apt  to  totter, 
—  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  Mr.  Loring, 
and  flung  at  him  the  unpremeditated  state- 
ment that  she  did  believe  in  the  immortality 
of  the  soul,  if  perhaps,  in  a  large  and  re- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  167 

mote  inexplicable  sense;  in  the  meantime,  if 
she  personally  knew  that  she  should  merge 
in  the  next  stage  of  her  being  into  a  flower, 
or  a  gas,  or  a  flame  of  fire,  it  would  seem  to 
her  a  matter  of  utter  indifference. 

Whereupon  Mr.  Loring,  astonished,  ejacu- 
lated : 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  'm  not  sure  but  that  is 
faith ! " 

She,  over  her  shoulder,  from  her  desk, 
responded : 

"At  least,  it  does  not  dictate  to  the 
Almighty." 

The  heterodox  boldness  of  this  sentiment 
seemed  to  please  the  ex-Presbyterian,  and  to 
lead  him  to  take  a  special  interest  in  Monica. 
He  privately  wondered  that  the  New  York 
Panyphone  printed  her  articles  and  rejected 
his,  but  he  was  far  too  kind-hearted  to  hold 
her  accountable  for  the  editor's  want  of  dis- 
crimination, and  benevolently  undertook  to 
improve  her  mind.  She  was  only  too  willing. 
She  really  hoped  something  in  this  line  might 
be  accomplished  for  her.  She  had  heard  of 
young  writers  protected  and  advised  by  men 
of  light  and  leading,  and  in  spite  of  her  sense 
of  irresponsibility  toward  her  firstling,  and 
toward  her  perfunctory  work  for  the  Pany- 


1 68  The  Garden  of  Eden 

phone,  and  her  playing  at  editing  TJie  Nosegay, 
she  could  no  longer  refuse  to  perceive  that  the 
world  —  that  is  to  say,  the  people  whom  she 
met  —  attributed  these  various  misdemeanors 
to  her  alone.  Hence  she  honestly  desired  to 
learn  something  of  the  trade  she  found  her- 
self practising  without  having  served  her 
apprenticeship.  When  Mr.  Loring  looked 
quizzically  at  her  and  remarked  he  never  had 
occupied  himself  with  novels  and  poetry,  — 
of  course  those  were  toys  for  women,  —  but  it 
would  be  singular  if  a  trained  theologian  and 
practised  writer  could  not  be  of  service  to  her, 
she  agreed  with  him  heartily  in  a  frame  of 
mind  sincerely  docile,  receptive,  and  hopeful 
of  good.  He  had,  it  appeared,  devoted  his 
leisure  in  Europe  to  what  he  chose  to  call  the 
study  of  art.  He  observed,  with  great  jus- 
tice, that  there  was  no  "  art  "  whatever  in  her 
little  book,  and  none  in  her  letters  to  the 
Panyphone,  not  even  one  allusion  —  here  he 
looked  at  her  reproachfully  —  to  Michael 
Angelo  or  Leonardo.  To  this  assertion 
Monica  assented  cheerfully.  She  spent  hours 
examining  his  engravings  and  etchings,  which 
interested  her  much,  and  in  listening  to  his 
dissertations,  which,  she  was  grieved  to  dis- 
cover, interested  her  precious  little.  For  a 


The  Garden  of  Eden  169 

knowledge  of  art,  according  to  his  interpreta- 
tion, consisted  in  committing  to  memory  in- 
terminable lists  of  painters'  names  and  the 
dates  of  their  births  and  deaths  with  a  chrono- 
logical catalogue  of  their  works.  Such  lore 
was  upon  the  whole  less  entertaining  than 
a  biblical  genealogy.  He  would  divide  an 
artist's  life  into  sections,  and  while  it  ob- 
viously gave  him  keen  pleasure  to  proceed 
from  firstly  to  twelfthly,  Monica  perceived 
with  regret  that  all  these  disquisitions  could 
never  help  her  to  learn  her  trade,  not  even  to 
suppress  one  superfluous  "and  which."  Not 
finding  her  zealous,  he  gradually  relinquished 
his  endeavors,  wondering  still  more  at  the 
Panyphone. 

But  among  the  pictures  he  showed  her  was 
one  of  which  he  was  unconscious:  a  gray- 
haired  man  with  boyish  ways;  charity  in  his 
heart ;  unfailing  tenderness  to  an  invalid  wife ; 
boundless  indulgence  to  those  lively  and  ex- 
pensive youths,  his  sons;  blind  idolatry  for 
his  little  daughter;  amusing  stories  on  his 
lips  and  wistfulness  in  his  eyes;  a  soul  home- 
sick alike  for  the  old  parish  and  the  old 
faith,  wrenched  from  both  too  late  in  life 
ever  to  take  root  elsewhere,  longing  always 
for  the  ancient  landmarks;  a  gentle  spirit 


170  The  Garden  of  Eden 

whipped  by  merciless  self-reproach ;  doubting 
systematically  and  on  principle,  yet  with  the 
old  ingrained  orthodox  horror  of  doubt ;  read- 
ing modern  science  with  a  sense  of  wrong- 
doing, and  a  half  suspicion  that  the  personal 
devil  with  hoofs  and  forked  tail  was  at  the 
root  of  the  whole  matter. 

This  portrait  Monica  found  touching,  and 
was  always  studying  faithfully  and  with  close 
sympathy.  It  was,  indeed,  a  subject  made  for 
her  hand,  or  for  a  better  one.  But  as  it  did 
not  occur  to  her  to  write  what  she  herself 
really  saw  and  felt,  she  continued  to  babble 
about  castles. 

The  next  person  who  attempted  to  improve 
her  intellect  was  a  lawyer  from  Massachu- 
setts. He  told  her  solemnly,  and  with  dis- 
tinct dissatisfaction  in  his  eye,  that  he  regarded 
her  work  as  promising,  —  very  promising,  in- 
deed; it  was  crude,  of  course;  no  one  could 
expect  her  to  have,  all  at  once,  the  experi- 
ence of,  say,  an  old  lawyer  like  himself;  but 
there  was  a  certain  freshness  in  her  touch; 
very  unlikely  that  that  freshness  would  last, 
it  was  not,  indeed,  an  essential  quality;  in 
order  to  become  a  serious  writer  she  should 
subject  her  mind  to  steady  discipline.  — 
Monica  now  pricked  up  her  ears,  was  ready  to 


The  Garden  of  Eden  171 

subject  herself  to  the  severest  course  of  men- 
tal gymnastics,  and  rejoiced  that  the  royal 
road  to  learning  was  about  to  reveal  itself  to 
her.  —  Now,  he  went  on,  he  thought  he  could 
be  of  real  service  to  her.  He  had  come  up 
expressly  to  talk  with  her  about  her  work. 
He  regretted  to  observe  she  did  not  model  her 
style  after  Shakespeare.  Shakespeare  seemed 
to  have  had  no  influence  whatever  upon  her 
style.  The  quality  of  this  reproach  was  mar- 
vellous to  Monica,  beyond  all  words.  Dumb, 
aghast,  she  waited.  "Now  I,"  continued  her 
visitor,  "have  made  it  my  practice  for  years 
to  model  my  style  after  Shakespeare.  Let 
me  read  you  this  essay.  The  Inland  Review 
has  just  rejected  it.  I  am  surprised  at  them. 
They  've  got  a  poor  management  there,  I 
fear.  Carefully  observe  my  style,  and  you 
will  comprehend  my  meaning."  Monica 
listened,  comprehended,  and  again  learned 
something  that  her  teacher  did  not  suspect. 
The  third  learned  pundit  who  was  good 
enough  to  interest  himself  in  her  intellectual 
development  —  and  this  was,  in  truth,  a  very 
great  man  —  frankly  intimated  idyls  were  not 
to  his  taste;  what  she  ought  to  write  was  a 
great,  stirring,  international  political  novel, 
—  that  was  the  sort  of  thing  she  ought  to  do; 


172  The  Garden  of  Eden 

nothing  else  was  worth  while.  He  sketched 
a  couple  of  plots  for  her  with  such  rapidity 
and  ease  that  Monica  innocently  asked  him 
why  he  did  not  write  the  books  himself. 
Others  came  and  went,  each  bringing  his 
scheme,  his  hobby,  his  self -absorption,  and 
considerable  disappointment  for  Monica.  No 
one  perceived  her  special  need,  yet  it  was 
great.  From  no  one  did  she  obtain  the  help 
and  guidance  that  she  sought.  Still  her 
mentor's  counsels  were  not  all  in  vain.  In- 
directly, at  least,  she  learned  from  them  that 
intellects  are  stubborn  things,  not  to  be 
moulded  except  in  their  own  way  and  in  their 
own  time;  above  all,  according  to  their  own 
potentialities;  and  that  writing,  like  living, 
is  lonely  work. 

Presently  undreamed-of  missives  and  com- 
munications from  the  great  outer  world  of 
strangers  began  to  pour  upon  her.  Requests 
for  her  opinion  upon  Hypnotism,  Pessimism, 
Vivisection,  Woman  Suffrage,  and  the  Shakes- 
peare-Bacon controversy  alarmed  her  beyond 
measure.  Inquiries  whether  she  composed 
with  or  without  the  use  of  tobacco  and  stimu- 
lants, at  what  time  of  day  her  genius  was 
most  prolific,  whether  she  could  or  could  not 
create  an  ideal  character,  dismayed  her  no 


The  Garden  of  Eden  173 

less.  In  this  last  demand  sounded  a  sup- 
pressed but  threatening  asperity.  Requests 
for  her  autograph  arrived  in  shoals,  and  she 
never  acceded  to  them  without  the  mortifying 
consciousness  that  her  signature  was  the  very 
best  thing  she  had  ever  written.  Some  people 
insisted  upon  having  an  original  sentiment, 
as  if  that  sort  of  thing  grew  upon  every  bush. 
What  mortal  may  dare  to  say  that  he  has  ever 
even  seen  one?  Others  insidiously  desired 
her  to  kindly  inform  them  who  was  the  author 
of  those  sweet  lines : 

**  Many  a  gallant,  gay  domestic 
Bows  before  him  at  the  door ;  " 

or  of  the  noble  verse : 

"  Footsteps  which  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 
Some  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again." 

She  was  even  honored  by  an  occasional  anon- 
ymous letter.  Marked  paragraphs  in  news- 
papers informed  her  —  long  before  she  ever 
set  foot  in  Italy  —  that  she  was  persistently 
floating  about  Venice  in  a  golden  gondola; 
and  that  she,  by  choice  and  by  chance  a  ring- 
less  being,  possessed  three  hundred  and  sixty- 


174  The  Garden  of  Eden 

five  rings  sparkling  with  priceless  gems,  all 
the  gifts  of  dear  friends;  which  fable  the 
desperate  paragraph ist,  at  a  loss  for  copy,  had 
evidently  cribbed  from  the  Arabian  Nights, 
and  appended  to  the  first  name  he  saw  in  a 
catalogue. 

All  these  things  seemed  to  Monica  rather 
severe  punishment  for  one  youthful  indiscre- 
tion, and  although,  in  spite  of  her  denseness, 
she  dimly  perceived  that  it  is  thus  that  that 
much  vaunted  thing,  the  free  voice  of  a  free 
people,  — the  American  Press,  at  the  close 
of  the  nineteenth  century, —  delights  to  honor 
the  literary  guild,  she  was  by  no  means,  as 
yet,  convinced  that  she  belonged  therein. 

But  when  in  a  Chicago  sheet  she  beheld  an 
article  upon  a  certain  school  of  writers,  and  a 
big  blotch  purporting  to  be  herself  amid  other 
big  black  blotches  purporting  to  be  men  and 
women  of  letters,  she  struggled  no  longer. 
With  a  gasp  and  a  groan  of  contrition  she 
glanced  at  her  shelves,  where,  in  calm  dis- 
dain, the  Mighty  stood,  —  Montaigne  and 
Moliere,  Shakespeare,  Shelley,  Balzac,  Thack- 
eray, and  Goethe;  in  their  wake  poets,  phi- 
losophers, scientists,  modern  novelists  of 
renown, — and  murmuring:  "You  see  how  it 
is  yourselves,"  she  meekly  bowed  her  head,  set 


The  Garden  of  Eden  175 

off  on  the  path  elected  for  her  by  destiny  in 
collusion  with  newspapers,  but  never  chosen 
by  her  own  free  will  and  convictions,  stole 
shamefaced  into  that  School,  with  her  own 
hands  shut  the  door  behind  her,  and  took  her 
place  —  at  the  foot  of  the  class. 


ij6  The  Garden  of  Eden 


VII 

IT  was  a  Thursday,  not  a  busy  day  for  the 
magazine,  nor  yet  absorbing  for  The  Pany- 
phone  article.  As  Monica  drew  on  her  gloves, 
prudently  thinking  it  was  perhaps  time  to 
have  her  teeth  examined,  a  button  fell.  She 
delayed  long  enough  to  sew  it  on.  When, 
shortly  after,  she  arrived  at  the  American 
dentist's,  the  maid  said  that,  a  patient  having 
excused  himself,  the  doctor  had  seized  his 
opportunity,  and  gone  off  for  an  hour  on  his 
bicycle,  not  five  minutes  ago.  Monica  was 
not  sorry  to  escape  a  prosaic  and  possibly 
painful  experience,  and  hoped  he  would  enjoy 
the  fresh  air.  He  looked  pale  enough  to 
need  it. 

She  had  heard  of  a  Goethe-Breviary,  a  rev- 
elation of  the  Master's  life  in  his  poems,  and 
went  into  a  bookshop  to  ask  for  it.  They 
told  her  they  had  that  instant  sold  their 
last  copy,  but  would  send  her  one  immedi- 
ately. Wishing  to  get  some  violets  for  Mrs. 
Loring,  who  was  exceptionally  miserable  in 
those  days,  Monica  was  now  informed  by  her 


The  Garden  of  Eden  177 

pet  flower-woman  that  Prince  Ruprecht  had 
just  ordered  their  entire  stock  of  violets  to  be 
laid  in  the  shape  of  an  enormous  cushion  at 
some  fair  lady's  feet.  It  seemed  rather  odd  to 
Monica  that  she,  like  no  less  a  person  than 
old  Mother  Hubbard,  was  arriving  everywhere 
one  moment  too  late.  She  was  therefore 
cheerfully  impressed,  when  face  to  face  on  the 
threshold  of  the  flower-shop  she  met  Elizabeth 
McCarroll,  looking  as  bright  as  the  morning. 

"  At  last  one  good  thing  has  waited  for  me," 
and  Monica  related  her  small  experiences 
while  Elizabeth  bought  her  flowers.  "  Fate 
has  relented,  it  seems,  otherwise  you  and  your 
roses  would  have  already  vanished  like  Prince 
Ruprecht's  cushion  —  barbarous  idea,  that 
cushion." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  Fate?  "  Elizabeth  asked, 
smiling,  as  they  walked  on  together. 

"  In  Law  —  yes.  Of  course  I  was  fishing 
about  these  trifles." 

"  If  there  is  such  a  thing  as  Fate,  then  there 
can  be  no  trifles,"  Elizabeth  retorted  with 
unwonted  sententiousness.  "  There  may  be  a 
divinity  that  shapes  the  loss  of  a  glove-but- 
ton," she  continued  incredulously,  "  but — " 

"  If  we  are  not  careful,  we  shall  soon  be 
launched  on  Free-will  and  Predestination,  which, 


178  The  Garden  of  Eden 

in  the  absence  of  Mr.  Loring,  would  be  too 
much  for  us." 

Elizabeth  made  a  wry  face. 

"Nothing  muddles  my  poor  brains  more 
than  that  subject,  which  has  no  end  and  no 
beginning.  Besides,  they  always  prove  that 
one  is  as  true  as  the  other,  which  is  agagant, 
as  you  must  admit.  It  is  simply  incomprehen- 
sible to  me  how  you  can  let  Mr.  Loring  preach 
at  you  so.  I  call  it  intemperate.  He  was 
there  fully  three  hours  on  Monday.  When  I 
came  in  for  the  second  time,  there  you  were 
still  at  it,  and  you  looked  like  pleasurably 
excited  owls." 

"jBut  I  preach  too,"  returned  Monica,  smil- 
ing. "I  am  from  New  England,  you  know. 
We  drink  in  a  taste  for  theology  with  our 
mother 's  milk.  Besides,  I  have  a  special  incen- 
tive ;  once  we  had  a  very  young,  prim  clergy- 
man, helplessly  aristocratic  in  his  tastes  and 
equally  exclusive  in  his  tenets  —  at  this  dis- 
tance I  may  perhaps  venture  to  call  him  a 
holy  snob.  No  one  ever  irritated  me  so  much. 
I  had  sometimes  a  wild  desire  to  get  up  and  ask 
him  how  he  knew  that  all  outcasts,  and  crimi- 
nals, and  souls  that  had  never  had  a  chance, 
and  souls  tempted  beyond  the  dimensions  of 
his  neat  hat-box  horizon,  were  all  doomed  to 


The  Garden  of  Eden  179 

eternal  perdition,  unless  they  marched  and 
gave  the  countersign  within  the  pale  of  our 
church,  how  he  dared  to  be  so  cocksure  of 
anything  so  monstrous,  and  if  he  could  not  un- 
derstand his  little  twopence  ha'penny  scheme 
of  salvation  was  not  large  enough  to  go  round 
this  planet,  let  alone  the  universe." 

"  Why  did  you  mind  ?  I  should  have  been 
looking  at  the  bonnets." 

"  Oh,  I  always  looked  at  the  bonnets  too. 
But  I  minded  because  it  never  seemed  fair 
play.  I  thought  somebody  ought  to  get  up 
and  speak  a  word  for  the  absent.  It  seemed 
preposterous  that  he  should  instruct  tough  old 
graybeards  who  knew  life.  But  no  doubt 
their  heads  were  in  their  ledgers.  They  did 
not  care  what  he  said.  They  were  respect- 
able vestrymen,  paid  their  fees  punctually 
and  felt  that  they  had  insured  a  safe  passage 
to  the  other  shore.  Meanwhile  stocks,  not 
dogmas,  were  their  affair.  But  I  used  to  sit 
and  glare  at  him,  and  he  had  a  voice  like 
honey  and  administered  suave  damnation  to 
his  fellow-creatures.  If  he  had  suspected  the 
awful  things  I  was  hurling  at  him  in  my  agi- 
tation !  Can  you  not  grasp  the  fact  that  they 
cannot  help  being  what  they  are?  Why 
don't  you  preach  tenderness  instead  of  clan- 


1 80  The  Garden  of  Eden 

nish  and  cruel  self-righteousness?  Why 
don't  you  preach  freedom?  The  green  elm 
branches  waving  gently  outside  the  open 
windows,  the  wandering  bird  that  darts  in 
circles  round  the  chancel,  hovers  an  instant, 
and  as  if  uncertain  soars  on  fleet  wing  out 
and  away,  preaches  better  than  you.  For  I 
was  not  wise  enough  to  give  him  the  same 
indulgence  I  claimed  for  the  others,  and  to 
remember  he  could  not  help  being  what  he 
was.  So  his  sermons  created  in  me  a  great 
store  of  pent-up  indignation  which  I  never 
supposed  I  should  have  the  opportunity  to 
let  off.  But  Mr.  Loring  preaches  and  is  good 
enough  to  let  me  preach  back  at  him  and 
not  mind  my  little  irregularities  of  style 
and  want  of  the  proper  seminary-manner, 
and  I  call  it  providential :  a  late  but  just 
compensation." 

"  So  you  are  rating  your  little  curate  over 
Mr.  Loring's  shoulders?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  a  terribly  retentive  person  you  are  ! 
And  fancy  working  one's  self  up  to  such  a 
pitch  of  excitement  over  the  criminals,  and 
outcasts,  and  heathen !  I  have  more  than 
enough  to  occupy  my  small  mind  in  my  own 
troublesome  affairs,  with  now  and  then  a  good 


The  Garden  of  Eden  1 8 1 

bit  of  gossip  about  my  neighbors.  But  you 
have,  I  presume,  what  they  call  the  imagina- 
tive temperament.  A  very  uncanny  thing,  too, 
it  must  be  to  drag  about  with  one  every- 
where. I  noticed  its  eccentricities  the  other 
night  as  we  sat  so  quiet  in  your  room  after 
twelve,  still  intoxicated  by  "  Tannhauser,"  and 
somebody  ran  down  the  pavement.  I  heard 
boots,  a  man's  heavy  boots,  no  more,  no  less, 
and  they  interested  me  not  a  whit.  But  you 
saw  a  deathbed,  or  birth,  a  family  in  conster- 
nation, pain,  grief,  heaven  knows  what.  You 
seemed  distressed.  You  got  up  and  looked 
after  him  —  as  if  that  were  sensible  !  " 

"  But  it  was  so  striking  in  the  utter  still- 
ness. It  began  far  away  at  the  extreme  end 
of  the  street  and  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and 
grew  loud  and  louder,  and  passed  beneath 
our  windows,  and  on  and  on,  grew  less  loud 
and  fainter,  and  died  away,  and  all  that 
time  the  step  never  flagged  or  changed.  It 
was  a  young  man,  running  skilfully  and  with 
a  purpose.  A  boy  whose  mother,  it  may  be, 
was  dying.  I  was  sorry  for  him.  Or  whose 
young  wife  was  in  her  agony.  Or  a  little 
child  was  suffering.  Somewhere  was  human 
need  or  he  could  not  have  run  so  bravely. 
To  me  these  are  facts,  not  imagination." 


1 82  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  I  refuse  to  abandon  my  position.  They 
were  mere  boots,  and  I  have  not  an  atom  of 
curiosity  as  to  why,  whence,  or  whither  the 
ugly  hobnailed  things  ran.  Otherwise  I 
should  retort  that  the  youth  had  been 
carousing  with  his  boon  or  beer-companions 
and  was  trying  to  get  home  before  his  father." 

Monica  laughed. 

"  Beer  cannot  run  like  that." 

"  Oh,  well !  Some  other  sort  of  lark,  then. 
Monica,  tell  me  one  thing.  Was  it  exclu- 
sively theology  that  occupied  your  seance 
of  three  hours?  " 

"  No.  We  had  other  little  pastimes.  Hyp- 
notism and  astronomy." 

"  Awful !  One  would  never  imagine  you 
were  learned,"  Elizabeth  declared  candidly. 
"  You  look  quite  like  anybody  else  —  nicer 
than  some,  it 's  fair  to  admit,  but  really  not 
so  intimidatingly  clever,  you  know." 

"  O  wise  young  judge  !  " 

"  I  am  not,  never  was,  never  shall  be  clever." 

"  So  much  the  better !  Then  why  all  this 
mummery?" 

"  It  is  merely,"  Monica  confessed,  "  that 
I  revel  in  things  I  do  not  understand.  They 
fascinate  me,  Elizabeth,  possess,  pursue  me." 

"  I  know,  Boots  !  " 


The  Garden  of  Eden  1 83 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  while. 

"  Pretty  town,"  said  Monica  at  length. 
"  How  it  grows  upon  one !  Sometimes  I 
think  I  may  miss  it  when  I  'm  gone." 

"  But  you  are  not  thinking  of  leaving?" 

"Whenever  my  mother  comes.  Perhaps 
before.  I  Ve  stayed  already  longer  than  I 
meant." 

"  Everybody  does  here.  I  came  for  six 
months  and  have  been  here  two  years.  One 
meets  with  —  detentions,"  she  added  vaguely. 

"  Oh  yes,"  Monica  assented  vaguely. 

"  You  are  fortunate  in  having  a  mother  to 
come  for  you?"  Elizabeth  said  after  a  mo- 
ment, in  a  fierce  sort  of  way. 

Monica  felt  nearer  to  her  from  that  moment, 
and  replied  gently: 

"  You  have  Robert." 

"  Bob  is  a  good  boy.  But  otherwise  I  have 
only  uncles.  And  uncles,  let  me  tell  you,  are 
an  arid  waste."  She  gave  a  hard  little  laugh, 
followed  instantly  by  a  marvellous  softening  of 
her  features  and  a  vivid  flush ;  which  signals 
Monica  noted,  together  with  the  gleams  on  the 
face  of  the  saluting  officer,  who  had  suddenly 
ridden  round  a  corner  upon  them.  It  was  evi- 
dent to  her  that  Elizabeth's  "  detention  "  wore 
the  blue  and  white  uniform  of  a  lieutenant  of 


1 84  The  Garden  of  Eden 

dragoons.  For,  whatever  Monica  failed  to 
perceive,  she  was  an  instinctive  observer  of  the 
ways  of  men  and  women  with  one  another,  of 
husbands  and  wives,  of  lovers  —  of  the  pri- 
mordial, the  manifold,  the  eternal  Adam  and 
Eve. 

Elizabeth  spoke  hurriedly: 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know  where  you  are 
going —  by  the  might  of  your  glove  button?" 

"  I  do  not  in  the  least  care.  I  am  walking 
for  the  walk  and  for  the  good  company." 

"  Thank  you.  I  have  two  objects  in  view, 
neither  very  pressing.  A  pair  of  tennis-shoes 
—  and  the  bank.  For  the  shoes  we  turn  here 
to  the  left.  For  the  money  to  the  right. 
Wait.  She  broke  off  a  bit  of  the  long  stems 
of  two  roses,  concealed  them  in  her  handker- 
chief and  presented  their  swathed  heads  to 
Monica.  "  Draw.  We  will  leave  it  to  fate. 
Long  stem,  bank.  Short,  tennis-shoes." 

Monica,  amused,  drew  the  long  stem. 

"  Fate  wills  that  you  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  me  draw^io,  and  of  being  smiled  upon 
by  the  handsome  Ferdinand." 

"  He  is  very  nice.  He  looks  like  an  old 
Norseman,  a  Viking." 

"  But  one  who  has  not  in  vain  lived  fifteen 
years  in  Paris." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  185 

"  At  all  events,  the  result  is  agreeable.  He 
is  a  great  blond  eagle  with  beautiful  manners." 

At  the  very  entrance  door  of  the  bank  Eliza- 
beth stopped  and  said  mischievously: 

"  Miss  Aspasia,  do  you  admit  that  I  can 
change  my  mind  now  and  go  and  get  my 
tennis-shoes?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  Then  I  am  a  free  agent?  " 

"  To  that  extent,  yes." 

"  All  right.  Then  you  shall  see  the  hand- 
some Ferdinand." 

"  I  cannot  deny  I  prefer  him  to  the 
alternative." 

"  For  what  you  are  about  to  receive,  thank 
your  glove  button,"  Elizabeth  muttered  wick- 
edly as  they  passed  in. 

"  It  is  too  small.  It  wants  to  shirk  respon- 
sibility. Besides,  it  is  only  a  link  in  an  endless 
chain." 

"  Don't !  It  is  a  good  point  of  departure  — 
and  I  hate  your  chain.  It  makes  me  dizzy." 

They  were  hardly  ten  minutes  at  the  bank. 
The  handsome  Ferdinand  received  them  in  his 
private  room,  smiled  benignly  and  impartially 
upon  them.  Monica,  to  whom  beauty  in  man 
or  woman  was  a  keen  joy,  and  a  species  of 
consolation,  often  indeed  had  power  to  divert 


1 86  The  Garden  of  Eden 

her  from  painful  thoughts,  to  absorb  her  ut- 
terly in  ardent  contemplation,  watched  the 
banker's  high  and  haughty  head  bending  gal- 
lantly over  Elizabeth's  pretty  creaminess  of 
skin,  her  reddish  hair,  her  red  and  eager 
mouth,  her  restless  eyes  and  restless  ways, 
and  thought  the  two  made  a  charming  picture. 

He  complimented  her  upon  her  dashing 
signature. 

"  You  foreign  ladies  are  so  amazingly  adroit 
You  never  remove  your  glove,  write  standing, 
leaning  on  one  elbow  —  with  one  stroke  of  the 
pen  —  it 's  all  one  to  you.  But  our  ladies 
take  themselves  more  seriously,  I  assure  you. 
They  respect  preliminaries.  Until  they  get 
the  right  pen  and  are  seated  comfortably  they 
look  as  solemn  as  if  they  were  about  to  take 
their  oath." 

"  Life  is  so  short !  "  sighed  Elizabeth. 

"You  intend  to  get  all  you  can  out  of  it, 
little  one,"  he  reflected,  looking  down  upon  her 
indulgently. 

"  How  is  the  beautiful  voice  ?  " 

"  Variable,  like  its  owner." 

"And  my  friend  Rob?" 

"  Well,  happy,  thanks.  Always  doing  what 
he  ought,  and  doing  it  admirably.  A  crushing 
example  to  his  frivolous  sister." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  187 

To  this  he  made  some  amiable  rejoinder, 
occupied  himself  a  few  minutes  with  Monica, 
shook  hands  with  them  cordially,  and  was 
about  to  open  the  door  for  them. 

"  By  the  way,  Rob  enters  the  sixth  class  in 
the  autumn,  does  he  not?  "  To  what  profes- 
sor shall  you  send  him?  " 

"  Has  one  any  choice  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  if  one  expresses  it  in  good  season. 
My  boys  were  all  with  Professor  Steiner,  and 
were  devoted  to  him.  That  was  some  years 
ago,  but  I  suppose  he  cannot  have  changed 
unless  to  grow  more  mild  and  mellow.  There 
is  a  parallel  professor  to  be  avoided,  I  believe, 
a  sharp  martinet  sort  of  fellow.  You  'd  better 
send  Rob  to  Steiner.  He  is  of  excellent 
family,  altogether  superior." 

"  How  does  one  do  it?  " 

"  You  can  write,  or,  better  still,  go  personally 
to  Professor  Steiner."  He  looked  at  his  watch. 
"  You  have  just  time  now  —  if  you  want  to  run 
over  to  the  Gymnasium,  you  will  catch  him  at 
twelve.  Tell  him  I  sent  you." 

"  And  all  I  have  to  say  is  '  your  compli- 
ments, I  'd  like  Bob  to  enter  his  class  in  the 
autumn'?  " 

"The  simplest  thing  in  the  world,  you 
see." 


1 88  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  suggest  it,"  she 
said  heartily.  "  You  are  always  so  thoughtful." 

"  Now  we  '11  tackle  the  old  professor,"  she 
exclaimed  gayly,  and  they  walked  off  briskly, 
reaching  the  Gymnasium  on  the  stroke  of 
twelve  in  time  to  find  the  janitor,  inquire  for 
Professor  Steiner's  room  and  meet  a  thousand 
boys  like  an  avalanche  thundering  down  the 
great  stairway.  Elizabeth  and  Monica  stood 
aside,  amused.  The  little  boys  pulled  off 
their  caps  with  a  perfunctory  inadvertent 
snatch,  the  great  boys  saluted  handsomely. 

"  They  are  fine  fellows,"  said  Monica  heart- 
ily. "  See  that  beauty !  Lovely  head  —  and 
what  a  pretty  back !  I  'm  glad  we  happened 
to  come.  I  like  to  see  them  flying  by." 

"  In  about  ten  years  or  so  some  of  them 
may  be  very  well  worth  looking  at,"  Elizabeth 
remarked  amiably.  "But  where  is  my  Rob? 
Perhaps  his  class  has  had  English  and  he  is 
gone  home." 

As  soon  as  the  thoroughfare  was  clear,  the 
two,  possessed  by  intentions  as  innocent  as 
ever  inspired  the  human  breast  since  the 
world  was  made,  went  up  some  long  flights 
of  iron  stairs  and  found  Class  VI.  B.  In  re- 
sponse to  Elizabeth's  knock  and  inquiry,  a 
small  boy,  after  dodging  back  for  instructions, 


The  Garden  of  Eden  189 

showed  them  into  an  adjacent  room,  and  told 
them  Professor  Steiner,  being  occupied,  begged 
them  to  excuse  him  for  five  minutes. 

It  was  a  dusty  little  place  with  one  window, 
one  table,  one  chair — and  some  copy-books 
in  pigeon-holes. 

"  I  'm  going  to  take  the  liberty  to  open  the 
window,"  said  Monica.  "  My  passage  through 
life  is  marked  by  open  windows." 

"Do  you  suppose  he  would  be  shocked  if 
I  should  sit  on  the  table?"  and  Elizabeth 
suited  the  action  to  the  word. 

"  I  think  he  would  have  apoplexy." 

Monica  was  in  brighter  spirits  than  she  had 
known  in  many  months.  Her  old  harmless 
trustful  gayety  of  the  heart  was  for  the  mo- 
ment restored  to  her  —  her  health,  her  youth, 
the  soft  June  day,  and  a  growing  sympathy 
with  Elizabeth  influencing  her.  She  stood 
smiling  and  thinking  of  nothing  at  all,  and 
idly  watching  Elizabeth  swing  her  pretty 
shoes,  when  a  slight  sound  outside  brought 
those  symmetrical  objects  to  the  floor  with  a 
bound,  the  door  opened,  and  Professor  Steiner 
stood  before  his  visitors.  What  they  saw  — 
they  had  wasted  hardly  a  thought  upon  his 
personality,  yet  instinctively  had  anticipated 
something  venerable  and  mild  —  was  a  man 


190  The  Garden  of  Eden 

of  middle  height  with  a  growing  rotundity 
beneath  his  too  short  waistcoat,  a  red  face,  a 
redder  nose,  a  pink  bald  head,  a  scanty  fringe 
of  sandy  hair,  and  pale  blue  glassy  eyes.  He 
were  a  long  black  coat,  a  gay  cravat,  pearl- 
gray  trousers,  and  seemed  to  be  struggling 
with  insensate  embarrassment.  Both  girls, 
each  after  her  own  fashion,  pronounced  him 
a  sorry  figure. 

The  interview  was  brief.  Monica  had 
reason  afterwards  to  remember  that  it  could 
not  have  lasted  three  minutes. 

Elizabeth  very  properly  and  prettily  gave 
her  message. 

Professor  Steiner  replied  that  he  should  be 
happy  to  receive  her  brother,  he  himself  would 
be  absent  at  the  beginning  of  the  school  year. 
His  health  obliged  him  to  take  a  furlough.  A 
very  good  vicar,  however,  would  have  charge 
of  the  class  until  Easter,  when  he  hoped  to 
return. 

While  with  incomprehensible  difficulty  and 
agitation  he  made  this  simple  statement  to 
Elizabeth,  his  glassy  eyes  continually  sought 
Monica. 

The  one  time  she  spoke  was  to  bid  him 
good  morning  as  they  left.  Swiftly  and  in 
silence,  with  discreet  countenances,  for  stray 


The  Garden  of  Eden  191 

professors  crossed  their  path,  they  fled  from 
the  building,  but,  once  in  the  street,  they 
turned  and  looked  in  each  other's  eyes. 

"If  that  is  a  German  professor — heaven 
save  the  mark !  " 

"  A  most  unfortunate  type  ! " 

"  No  mortal  has  a  right  to  look  like  that." 

"  Poor  thing,  he  cannot  help  it,  I  suppose  — 
but  he  is  dreadful  —  most  dreadful  —  altogether 
dreadful." 

"  Now  I  think  he  can  help  it.  He  may  not 
be  to  blame  for  his  cast  of  countenance,  but 
he  certainly  need  not  have  such  a  skin.  He  'd 
better  not  show  himself  until  he 's  taken 
proper  baths  and  medicines.  He  is  a  terror." 

"  I  'm  very  thankful  I  have  not  to  go  to  his 
school,"  said  Monica  fervently. 

"  Poor  Rob  !  I  should  have  a  fit.  Can  you 
imagine  boys  attaching  themselves  to  that 
man?" 

"  No,  I  cannot.  Still  he  may  be  nicer  with 
them." 

"  And  why  did  he  glare  at  you  while  he 
stammered  at  me?  " 

"  He  was  very  singular." 

"  If  that  man  is  mellow,"  declared  Elizabeth 
after  walking  on  a  while  in  silence,  "  he  is  mel- 
low with  alcohol." 


192  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Monica  laughed. 

"  Oh,  how  can  that  be  possible  after  the 
praise  of  him  we  heard  to-day,  and  from  such 
a  cavalier?  And  Professor  Steiner  told  us 
himself  that  he  was  ill  and  going  away." 

"  He  'd  better  go,"  said  Elizabeth  dryly, 
"  and  if  it's  not  too  late  he  'd  better  learn  how 
to  enter  a  room  without  knocking  the  door  off 
the  hinges.  I  cannot  endure  men  who  run 
into  doors  and  jeopardize  the  furniture.  And 
if  you  will  allow  me  to  inquire,  why,  oh  why 
does  he  wear  pearl-gray  trousers  in  his  class- 
room?" 

"  I  am  afraid  we  are  very  hard-hearted,"  said 
Monica,  "  but  he  was  so  disconcerted  and  so 
disconcerting,  it  is  a  relief  to  remember  how 
short  your  mission  was,  and  that  we  never  need 
trouble  him,  or  he  us  again." 

"  Amen,"  responded  Elizabeth.  Whereupon 
they  spoke  of  other  things. 

That  afternoon  Monica  sat  busily  biting  her 
pen  and  wondering  what  she  should  next 
attack  for  The  Panyphone.  An  inexplicably 
unpleasant  quality  in  Professor  Steiner's  glazed 
stare  haunted  her  for  a  while  against  her  will. 
"  Ah,  what  does  it  matter  to  me  how  the  poor 
man  looks !  "  But  presently  she  thought  no 
more  of  him,  for  dear  old  Mr.  Loring  walked 


The  Garden  of  Eden  193 

in  unannounced,  silent  and  care-laden,  with  a 
certain  air  of  resolution,  sat  down  in  a  large 
arm-chair  as  if  he  were  come  to  stay,  crossed 
his  legs,  wiped  his  brow,  stroked  his  gray 
beard,  regarded  her  some  moments  with  his 
puzzled,  kind,  weary  eyes  and  finally  pro- 
pounded in  a  slow  and  mournful  voice,  the 
somewhat  startling  query : 

"  Miss  Randolph,  do  you  believe  in  Tran- 
substantiation?  " 


194  The  Garden  of  Eden 


VIII 

"  MONICA,  this  sofa  is  inhuman.  If  I  were 
you,  I  should  prattle  about  it  to  The  Pany- 
phone,  and  say  something  original  about  Pro- 
crustes. It  is  horribly  hard,  and  my  feet 
dangle.  Can't  you  swing  up  a  hammock  by 
way  of  hospitality?" 

"No." 

"Monica,  have  you  any  cigarettes?" 

"No." 

"  Monica,  that  table  cover  hurts  my  eyes. 
It  does  not  look  as  if  it  belonged  in  your  Se- 
rene Highness's  apartment.  It  is  really  awful. 
Would  you  mind  if  I  should  bring  you  some- 
thing quiet  and  soft?  " 

"No." 

"  Monica,  what  are  you  giving  them  to-day? 
Do  you  really  think  it  worth  fifteen  dollars? 
Do  you  know  anything  about  it?" 

"  No  !  " 

"  Monica,  what  is  your  opinion  of  the  holy 
institution  of  wedlock,  '  so  comfortable  a  thing 
to  them  who  receive  it  worthily,  and  so  dan- 
gerous to  those  who  will  presume  to  receive  it 


The  Garden  of  Eden  195 

unworthily?' — 'And  he  marched  them  all  in 
two  by  two,  the  elephant  and  the  kangaroo.' " 

"No." 

"  Come !  That  is  not  polite,  my  dear.  A 
truly  great  mind  can  write  articles  for  news- 
papers and  talk  with  me  at  the  same  time. 
There  is  something  very  irritating  in  your  dili- 
gence, Monica.  It  is  very  bourgeois.  Besides 
it  is  ruinous  to  the  figure.  Now  if  you  could 
only  see  your  back  !  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  at  the  moment  I  'd  rather  see 
yours." 

"  Thank  you.  But  I  shall  stay  with  you, 
dear.  You  really  ought  to -learn  to  attend  to 
me  and  The  Panyphone  at  once.  Think  of  the 
great  Napoleon.  .  .  .  Oh,  Monica,  that's  not 
fair.  You  Ve  begun  something  else !  Ah,  do 
stop  that  wretched  business  and  talk  to  me." 

"  I  must  do  these  '  Answers  to  Correspond- 
ents,' Elizabeth,  for  the  boy  is  waiting.  Why 
do  you  not  help  me?  It  would  be  rather  more 
sensible  than  to  lie  there  and  talk  nonsense  and 
admire  your  finger-nails." 

"  What  do  our  Correspondents  want  to 
know?" 

"  Just  turn  to  '  Ironclads,'  in  Meyer's  '  Con- 
versations-Lexicon,'will  you,  Elizabeth?  It's 
on  the  upper  shelf.  Put  a  mark  in,  please. 


196  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Find  '  Petroleum,'  too,  and  '  Aluminium,'  if  you 
don't  mind,  while  I  attend  to '  Nina,'  who  wants 
a  remedy  for  freckles." 

"  There  is  none,  on  this  side  Jordan's  wave. 
I  ought  to  know.  What  are  you  telling  her?  " 

"  To  take  a  cold  bath  in  the  morning,  and  a 
hot  bath  at  night,  and  to  sleep  with  her  win- 
dows open.  She  probably  does  nothing  of  the 
kind,  and  it  will  be  good  for  her,"  Monica  said 
benevolently. 

"  Oh,  Monica,  what  a  disreputable  employ- 
ment for  a  girl  of  good  family." 

"  It  is,  rather,  but  then  we  women  cannot 
choose  our  lot.  Do  you  suppose  men  editors 
are  such  hypocrites?" 

"  Oh  !     They !  " 

"  I  at  least  never  do  my  correspondents  any 
harm,"  Monica  said,  rather  doubtfully. 

"  Oh,  don't  you?     What  is  the  next  ? " 

"  Plain  sailing.  A.  P.  wants  to  know  if 
champagne  is  bad  for  gout.  We  reply:  Con- 
sult your  medical  adviser" 

"  Simpleton ! " 

"  Here  is  one  who  is  rather  alarming.  '  X. 
Reutlingen!  I  am  always  declining  his  trans- 
lations of  Heine.  People  who  know  almost  no 
English  are  possessed  by  a  frantic  desire  to 
translate  Heine  into  that  tongue.  X.  Reut- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  197 

lingen  does  not  like  me.  He  objects  to  the 
management  of  The  Nosegay.  He  is  always 
threatening  to  withdraw  his  subscription.  He 
sounds  as  if  he  were  approaching  with  a  club." 

"  He  probably  thinks  you  are  bald  and  have 
a  gray  beard,  Monica." 

"Yes,  they  all  do.  Wait.  What  shall  I 
say.  He  is  really  quite  insulting,  you  know, 
and  he  has  sent  more  Heine.  '  Sir  —  sir.'" 

"  '  Sir,'  "  suggested  Elizabeth,  "  '  you  are  an 
old  duffer  !  '  " 

u  I  have  it.  I  '11  advise  him  to  apply  to  the 
Pall  Mall  Budget.  Perhaps  then  he  '11  try  a 
lot  of  English  papers,  and  it  will  be  a  long 
time  before  he  gets  round  to  me  again.  So 
much  for  X.  Reutlingen,"  continued  Monica 
in  a  rapid  murmur.  "'Dora  B'  Answer. 
Easy  quotation  from  Tennyson.  —  '  Ella.' 
Ditto  from  Longfellow. 

" '  Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy  flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day.' 

When  they  want  that  sort  of  thing,  I  feel  that 
I  have  not  lived  in  vain.  I  can  give  them 
any  amount.  —  'Juliet.'  A  girl  who  loves  pas- 
sionately, irrevocably,  and  eternally  the  one, 
while  her  cruel  parents  insist  upon  sacrificing 
her  to  the  other." 


198  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  Oh,  just  let  me  attend  to  her ! "  cried 
Elizabeth. 

"No,  I  don't  trust  you.  You  would  com- 
promise the  dignity  of  this  editorial  chair." 

"  Shall  you  tell  her  to  take  a  bath  or  to  con- 
sult her  medical  adviser?" 

Monica  wrote  busily.  "The  ironclads, 
please.  How  can  people  want  to  know  such 
things  ?  — '  A  Constant  Reader.  We  thank  you 
for  your  kind  expressions  of  approval  and 
interest  which  — ' ' 

" '  Which  are  particularly  gratifying  at  this 
season,"  proposed  Elizabeth,  "  '  when  X.  Reut- 
lingen  is  prowling  about  our  office  with  a 
bludgeon  —  " 

"  Be  quiet ! "  murmured  Monica  abstractedly. 
"Hm  —  hm  —  'but  the  point  in  question  is 
unfitted  for  discussion  in  these  pages.' " 

"Because  you  know  nothing  about  it?" 

"  Of  course.  *  We  advise  you  consult  —  to 
consult  —  your  solicitor.'" 

"  Happy  thought !  " 

"  There,  that  will  do  for  to-day,  I  think. 
Don't  look  so  wicked,  Elizabeth,  I'm  going 
to  ring  for  the  boy." 

"  Now,  Monica,  come  here  and  listen  to  me. 
I  'm  tired  of  this  place,  let  us  go  to  Italy. 
Don't  say  no.  You  have  said  nothing  but 


The  Garden  of  Eden  199 

No  all  the  afternoon.  You  are  der  Geist  der 
stets  -verneint" 

"  But  I  'm  going  later,  when  my  mother 
comes." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  why  cannot  we  run 
down  there  now?" 

Monica  looked  at  her  thoughtfully. 

She  seemed  restless,  tired,  feverish.  She 
complained  that  she  could  not  sing,  had  no 
more  voice  than  a  pipe-stem.  She  was  always 
haunting  Monica's  rooms,  whimsical,  gay,  with 
a  hungry  look  in  the  eyes. 

"  Talk  to  me,  Monica.  Entertain  me.  I  'm 
bored." 

"  Eleanor  could  do  the  proof-reading  for 
The  Nosegay,  I  suppose,  and  any  extra  work. 
Of  course  I  'd  make  up  the  numbers  in 
advance." 

"  That  little  encyclopedia !  I  should  say 
so !  She  has  petroleum  at  her  fingers'  ends, 
and  warships  too,  I  don't  doubt." 

"  Appallingly  clever  child.  She  is  coaching 
some  young  men  here  for  Oxford.  When 
those  great  dark  eyes  under  that  big  fore- 
head, and  her  wild  hair  and  shy  little  person 
appeared  in  response  to  their  advertisement, 
it  must  have  been  a  delicious  moment." 

"  She 's  a  good  little  thing,  but  if  you  praise 


2oo  The  Garden  of  Eden 

her  you'll  make  me  jealous.  I'm  a  disgust- 
ingly jealous  wretch,  do  you  know?" 

"  You  don't  mind  leaving  Robert?  " 

"  He 's  better  off  without  me.  Sometimes  I 
think  if  I  should  die  to-morrow  he  would 
hardly  miss  me." 

"  Ah,  he  needs  you  so,  and  is  so  fond  of 
you." 

"  I  'm  not  a  good  sort  of  a  sister.  I  have 
a  bad  conscience.  I'm  too  scatterbrained. 
Say,  will  you  go  off  with  me,  Monica?" 

"  She 's  wild  to  get  away,"  thought  Monica. 
"  She  is  miserable  and  desperate.  Her  eyes 
are  haggard,  she  is  growing  thin  and  losing 
her  voice.  That  is  what  we  call  being  in  love. 
I  wonder  if  there  is  no  other  planet  where 
they  manage  these  things  better."  In  her 
own  heart  tod  was  great  dreariness,  for  Keith's 
letters  were  rarer  and  shorter,  all  the  sweet- 
ness that  she  found  she  had  to  read  into  them 
herself. 

"  Don't  stare  at  me  like  that,  Monica. 
Think  aloud." 

"  Yes,  I  '11  go  if  you  like  for  a  little  trip  — 
say  for  five  or  six  weeks." 

Just  before  Easter  they  went  over  the  Bren- 
ner into  Italy. 

At   Easter   Professor   Steiner,   after  a  half 


The  Garden  of  Eden  201 

year's  absence  returned  home  by  the  Goth- 
ard  and  reassumed  his  duties. 

This  unimportant  and  unattractive  fact  the 
travellers  heard  promptly  from  Robert,  who 
wrote  his  sister  in  Verona  the  professor  was 
awfully  kind  to  him.  The  fellows  had  found 
it  out  already.  Whenever  they  wanted  any- 
thing, they  sent  him  up  as  spokesman. 

"  Clever  of  us  to  steam  into  Italy  just  as  he 
steamed  out,"  said  Elizabeth. 

"  Rather !  " 

Presently  the  Frau  Professor  wrote  that 
Professor  Steiner's  attention  to  Robert  was 
most  unusual,  and  certainly  very  flattering  and 
profitable  to  the  boy,  whom  he  took  on  long 
walks,  invited  to  his  house  and  evidently  re- 
garded with  real  affection. 

"  That  is  all  very  nice  for  Bob,  provided  he 
likes  it,  but  I  really  hope  we  are  not  going  to 
be  accompanied  through  Italy  by  news  of 
Professor  Steiner,"  Elizabeth  remarked  as 
Monica  gave  her  this  information  in  Florence. 

In  Rome  came  a  letter  from  Professor  Steiner 
himself,  asking  Elizabeth  if  she  would  kindly 
allow  Robert  to  ride  with  him  on  half  holi- 
days. As  Robert  was  riding  regularly,  and 
he,  the  professor,  found  riding  excellent  for 
his  still  delicate  health  it  would  be  a  real 


2O2  The  Garden  of  Eden 

pleasure  to  have  the  companionship  of  his 
bright  little  friend.  Professor  Steiner  added 
a  few  words  of  hearty  commendation  of  Bob's 
character  and  talents,  presented  his  compli- 
ments to  both  ladies  and  wished  them  much 
happiness  in  Italy. 

Elizabeth  regarded  this  document  with  a 
mistrustful  and  vindictive  air. 

"Now,  why  does  he  write  all  that,  Monica? 
Why  does  he  not  simply  ride  with  Rob? 
Why  does  he  bore  and  haunt  one  so?  When 
I  look  at  the  Faun  of  Praxiteles  to-day  I  shall 
certainly  remember  those  pearl-gray  trousers 
and  their  excruciating  attitude.  I  am  not 
going  to  write  to  him.  I  '11  simply  tell  Rob 
of  course  he  may  ride  with  his  odious  profes- 
sor, and  much  joy  to  them !  " 

But  Professor  Steiner  was  indefatigably  polite 
and  wrote  to  thank  Miss  McCarroll  for  her 
kindness  and  proof  of  confidence.  Again  he 
presented  his  compliments  to  Miss  Randolph. 
He  ventured  to  hope  the  ladies  would  not  fail 
to  see  the  Torlonia  Museum.  There  were 
some  interesting  old  mosaics  and  frescos  in 
Santa  Maria  in  Travastere  which  everybody  did 
not  go  to  see.  And  the  pines  and  cypresses 
and  long  peaceful  vistas  in  the  Pamfili  Doria 
garden  he  hoped  they  would  not  neglect. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  203 

Monica  and  Elizabeth  stared  at  each  other 
with  resentment. 

"  He  might  as  well  tell  us  not  to  forget  to 
throw  our  pennies  into  the  Fountain  of  Trevi !  " 

"  Or  to  go  to  see  the  Baths  of  Caracalla  or 
the  Coliseum  by  moonlight,  and  to  hear  the 
nightingales." 

"Everybody  goes  to  Santa  Maria  in  Tra- 
vastere." 

"  Everybody  goes  to  see  the  Torlonia  gems 
and  fauns." 

"  Everybody  goes  to  the  Pamfili  Doria 
garden." 

"The  man  is  intrusive.  He  tires  me," 
Elizabeth  said  petulantly. 

"  He  is  tiresome.  He  seems  to  have  very 
little  tact,  but  I  suppose  he  means  it  kindly 
enough.  He  has  just  been  here,  knows  it  all 
by  heart,  is  learned,  and  thinks  us  ignorant 
helpless  things,  I  suppose.  Let  us  absolve 
him,  since  he  is  at  a  good  distance,  like  the 
priests  at  St.  Peter's  we  saw  touching  peni- 
tents' heads  with  that  long  thing,  to  absolve 
them  quickly  from  little  sins  without  con- 
fession." 

"  If  he  'd  not  attempt  to  be  our  Pocket 
Guide !  " 

He   informed   himself  of  their   course,  his 


204  The  Garden  of  Eden 

intimacy  with  Robert  affording  him  rich  op- 
portunity. He  called  upon  the  Frau  Pro- 
fessor to  express  his  satisfaction  in  Robert's 
scholarship  and  soon  wandered  to  the  two 
ladies  and  the  Italian  journey.  Through  her, 
through  the  people  with  whom  Elizabeth  and 
Robert  were  living,  through  Rob  himself,  the 
travellers  received  the  professor's  painstaking 
pedantic  messages  for  their  guidance.  It  was 
evident  they  were  incessantly  in  his  thoughts, 
and  his  awkward  persistency  followed  them 
from  place  to  place,  dwelt  with  them  and  con- 
jured up  his  unsympathetic  presence  in  every 
charming  spot. 

They  must  surely  go  to  Siena:  they  must 
not  fail  to  see  the  well  at  Orvieto,  and  the 
mosaics  and  choir  books :  it  would  be  a  great 
pity  if  they  should  not  visit  the  Temple  at 
Paestum,  he  had  something  to  commend  at 
Capri,  to  warn  against  at  Sorrento :  churches, 
statues,  pictures,  landscapes,  he  recommended 
with  ever  increasing  insistence. 

"We  can  hardly  enjoy  anything  for  the 
trail  of  the  Steiner,"  Monica  complained. 

"  It  is  altogether  disgusting  how  often  one 
has  to  think  of  that  odious  man." 

Monica  beheld  Keith  among  emperors, 
athletes  and  gods. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  205 

Her  mother  wrote,  after  months  in  which 
she  had  not  mentioned  him,  that  he  was  look- 
ing very  jolly.  He  was  growing,  she  thought, 
stout.  He  went  out  more  than  formerly.  He 
was  rather  devoted  to  Kitty,  and  played  chess 
five  evenings  a  week  with  Kitty's  husband. 
It  was  impossible  for  Monica  to  explain  why 
these  apparently  innocent  remarks  made  her 
so  uncomfortable.  Stout?  Well,  was  there 
harm  in  that?  But  Kitty,  silly  little  Kitty! 
Five  evenings  a  week  .of  Kitty!  And  the 
letters  so  rare  now,  so  —  well,  yes,  —  so  dry 
and  indifferent.  She  wrote  many  letters  from 
Italy  to  Keith,  ardent  letters,  clinging  desper- 
ately to  the  past,  reminding  him  of  the  old 
sweetness,  the  old  nearness,  the  old  power  and 
charm  —  all  that  was  immutable,  eternal  be- 
tween them,  letters  that  had  the  effect  of  a 
bombardment  of  his  heart,  and  that  were, 
although  she  knew  it  not,  alive  with  subtle 
reproach.  She  believed  that  this  was  pure 
faithfulness  on  her  part.  She  would  have 
repudiated  the  suggestion  of  any  baser  quality 
in  her  intense  pleading.  But  her  mother's 
astute  hints,  together  with  the  thrilling  influ- 
ences of  Italy  roused  her  to  summon  all  her 
strength  for  a  last  effort  to  keep  what  seemed 
to  be  slipping  fatally  away  from  her,  her 


206  The  Garden  of  Eden 

priceless  treasure  that  she  had  deemed  hers 
till  death.  So  she  walked  in  beauty,  was 
thrilled  and  lifted  up  and  comforted  and  pos- 
sessed by  the  divine  dreams  of  human  souls ; 
dreams  caught  and  held  in  marble,  glowing 
on  canvas,  frozen  in  architecture,  projected 
like  a  heavenly  vision  in  vanishing  landscape : 
and  she  was  less  unhappy  than  she  knew, 
being  strong  and  young  and  swayed  by  every 
touch  of  beauty :  yet  she  struggled  much  and 
longed  for  what  she  had  not,  and  suffered, 
missing  the  warmth  she  craved,  feeling  too, 
she  was  robbed  of  her  rights. 

Of  all  these  things  in  her  heart  she  said 
not  one  word  to  Elizabeth,  who  in  her  turn 
was  capricious,  fitful,  sometimes  unreasonable 
and  irritable  about  trifles,  repenting  sweetly 
like  a  child  —  droll,  silent,  weary  —  everything 
by  turns,  breaking  forth  into  fascinating  song 
whenever  she  had  had  a  particularly  bad  mood 
and  calling  triumphantly : 

"  When  I  sing,  you  forgive  me.  Everybody 
does.  When  I  sing  I  can  tame  anybody, — 
even  those  old  brutes,  my  uncles." 

But  the  cause  of  her  great  restlessness,  her 
physical  nervousness,  her  comfortlessness,  she 
did  not  intimate.  Monica,  observing  her  gently 
between  palaces  and  pictures,  was  more  than 


The  Garden  of  Eden  207 

ever  convinced  that  in  respect  to  its  provision 
for  the  incalculable  element  called  love,  this 
must  be  one  of  the  most  inadequate  of  planets. 

So  the  two  wandered  on,  growing  more 
closely  attached  and  accustomed  to  each 
other  in  the  intimacy  of  daily  life,  in  the  one- 
ness of  their  interests,  the  charm  and  freedom 
of  their  little  adventures.  They  found  and 
lost  delightful  fellow-pilgrims,  friends  of  a 
week,  of  a  day,  meeting  them  in  old  Pompeii, 
or  in  the  sweet  tranquillity  of  ancient  cloisters, 
and  something  like  affection,  like  a  vague 
prayer  crept  into  those  light  farewells. 

"  So  much  beauty  and  goodness,  so  much 
sympathy  in  the  world,"  said  Monica  vehem- 
ently one  day.  "  That  one  cannot  hold  and 
keep  it !  That  one  can  keep  nothing !  " 

"  Not  even  one's  ideals,"  she  added  bitterly 
in  her  heart.  "  Not  even  one's  belief  in  un- 
dying friendship  —  not  even  the  poor  comfort 
of  loving  letters  to  help  one  to  go  on  and 
live  one's  life."  Still,  Keith's  last  note,  hardly 
more  effusive  than  a  commercial  bulletin,  went 
everywhere  with  her  through  the  Vatican,  the 
churches,  the  catacombs,  the  ruins,  and  her 
hand  clung  to  that  bit  of  paper  as  she  stood 
looking  at  lovely  old  landmarks  and  long 
sunny  vistas  seen  through  famed  arches  and 


2o8  The  Garden  of  Eden 

vanishing  in  the  blue  distances  of  the  Alban 
hills. 

"  Don't!  "  exclaimed  Elizabeth  fiercely,  and 
shook  her,  which  was  one  of  her  manifestations 
of  affection.  Monica  saw  her  friend's  eyes 
were  full  of  tears. 

"  If  such  as  you  begin  like  that,  then  such 
as  I  are  lost !  Can't  you  see  I  only  keep  up 
by  hanging  on  to  you?  I  never  heard  you 
talk  so  !  "  she  said  reproachfully.  "  It  is  quite 
out  of  character.  The  calm,  the  successful, 
the  unconquered — that  is  your  r61e.  Don't 
let  me  hear  any  more  pessimism  from  you 
again.  It  is  too  startling,  and  it's  not 
artistic." 

"  Oh,  I  thought  it  only  the  proper  thing  — 
in  Rome  —  and  at  the  Palace  of  the  Caesars," 
Monica  rejoined  quietly,  but  Elizabeth  regarded 
her  suspiciously,  shook  her  head,  and  for  a 
whole  half  day  was  not  contrary  or  boyish  or 
inclined  to  tease. 

"  Do  you  like  Hilda?  "  she  said  later. 

"  No,"  Monica  replied,  "  I  never  liked 
Hilda." 

"  Well,  that 's  a  comfort  at  least." 

They  travelled  easily,  as  women  are  apt  to 
travel  everywhere  on  the  continent,  if  kind, 
possessed  of  a  fair  share  of  humor,  without  an 


The  Garden  of  Eden  209 

absolute  hump,  and  not  too  British  —  above 
all  not  hampered  by  masculine  protection. 
This,  on  the  rare  occasions  when  it  could  not 
be  escaped,  they  found  cumbersome,  often 
fatal  to  their  interests.  Alone,  every  mother's 
son  who  put  his  eye  on  them  was  eager  to  do 
them  service.  They  found  themselves  in  an 
extra  carriage  when  trains  were  overcrowded. 
Cabs  appeared  for  them  when  there  were  none. 
The  swift,  odd,  happy  chance  —  the  blessing  of 
Hermes,  god  of  wanderers,  was  always  on  their 
side,  and  the  whole  world  of  men,  from  the 
officials  down  to  the  porters,  seemed  imbued 
with  a  desire  to  protect  them  and  hand  them 
along  safely.  But  did  a  man's  countenance 
appear  beside  them  as  they  steamed  into  a 
station  —  some  hotel-acquaintance  —  some 
compatriot  persuaded  of  the  inherent  helpless- 
ness of  woman  —  all  the  pleasing  alacrity 
upon  which  they  counted  as  their  good  right, 
left  them  suddenly  in  the  lurch.  His  "  I  say  ! 
Here !  You ! "  and  vigorous  gesticulation 
were  not  alluring  to  the  nearest  lazy  facchino, 
who,  presumably,  reasoned  somewhat  in  this 
fashion :  "  You  've  got  those  nice-looking  girls 
with  you,  and  it  is  more  than  you  deserve,  you 
old  cockney.  Now  look  out  for  yourself." 
Men  do  not,  even  for  the  hope  of  money, 


2io  The  Garden  of  Eden 

instinctively  fly  to  the  aid  of  harassed  men- 
travellers.  Men  do  not  long  to  be  nice  to 
men,  are  not  in  the  least  attracted  by  men's 
bright  eyes  and  gentle  voices,  and  it  is  safe  to 
set  this  down  as  a  positive  truth :  among  the 
many  illusions  which  men  fondly  cherish  in 
respect  of  themselves,  none  is  more  utterly 
wide  of  the  mark  than  that  their  mere  presence 
makes  for  pleasurableness  to  women  travelling. 
But  although  Monica  and  Elizabeth  were 
apparently  unescorted,  three  men,  silent,  in- 
visible, ever  present,  accompanied  them.  By 
the  Bay  of  Naples,  by  the  rich  Roman  foun- 
tains, amid  all  classic  memories,  all  monuments 
of  a  glorious  past:  listening  to  the  nightingales 
and  to  the  owls:  driving  in  the  gay  Pincio  or 
penetrating  squalid  streets  teeming  with  life, 
ugliness,  and  smells :  in  their  lovely  quests, 
their  ecstasies  over  their  Botticellis,  their 
adorations  before  many  shrines,  their  search 
after  painters  and  heroes  and  martyrs  and 
lovers  —  finding  now  and  then  all  united  in 
one  strong  human  soul:  among  the  flowers 
at  Florence,  in  the  sunshine  where  all  cries 
were  musical  notes  —  even  fish  and  cabbage  — 
and  the  smile  of  the  old  was  young,  and  chil- 
dren looked  like  cherubs  fresh  from  -me  hand 
of  God:  before  the  great  John  Bellini  in 


The  Garden  of  Eden  211 

Venice:  gliding  in  dusk  under  the  bridges  and 
out  toward  the  Lido  and  the  great  ships  where 
lights  gleamed  and  flashed  across  the  liquid 
distance :  in  the  endless  fascination  of  life,  in 
the  gleam  of  marble,  the  plash  of  water,  the 
voices  and  the  grace  of  boatmen,  the  curve  of 
a  stairway,  the  flitting  of  doves'  wings,  the 
witchery  of  sails :  under  the  forest  of  ship- 
masts  rising  from  the  calm  harbor  of  Trieste : 
beneath  the  olives  and  vines  and  myrtles  of  its 
hill-slopes,  over  the  Semmering  Pass  by  moon- 
light with  wonderful  visions  of  radiance  and 
gloom,  gigantic  cloud  effects,  faces  of  Gods 
and  Titans  in  uproar:  in  Vienna  with  its  own 
charm,  face,  and  voice  and  laughter,  more 
pictures,  music,  and  the  church  where  imper- 
ial hearts  lie  —  now  at  rest,  did  they  ache 
more  or  less  than  other  hearts? — in  all  that 
was  full,  warm,  fresh  and  delightful  on  that 
journey,  in  all  that  was  amusing  and  adventur- 
ous, three  men  never  left  them,  one  summoned 
in  love  by  Monica,  one  summoned  in  love  by 
Elizabeth,  one  summoned  solely  by  himself, 
alas !  to  his  own  doom  and  destruction. 

Professor  Steiner's  constant  participation  in 
their  pleasures  was  most  unnatural  and,  as 
Elizabeth  said,  "  lurid."  But  they  could  not,  in 
puerile  pique,  deprive  themselves  of  loveliness 


212  The  Garden  of  Eden 

merely  because  he  chose  to  suggest  it  to  them. 
Much  to  their  exasperation,  his  messages  ac- 
quired a  kind,  intimate,  and  quasi-paternal 
tone.  He  seemed  to  imagine  he  was  person- 
ally conducting  their  trip  and  to  esteem  him- 
self of  incalculable  use.  It  was  impossible  to 
keep  him  long  out  of  their  thoughts,  and  they 
spoke  of  him  oftener  than  they  wished,  if  it 
were  only  to  say :  "  Recommended  unfortu- 
nately by  Steiner."  It  irritated  them  in  secret 
to  find  this  stranger's  name  upon  their  lips, 
while  the  loved  name  was  unspoken,  but  the 
truth  is,  women  do  not  always  tell  all  they 
know — no  more  perhaps  than  men. 

Monica  was  conscious  of  a  warmth  and 
lightness  of  heart  upon  returning.  The  town 
nestled  among  its  hills  looked  charming  even 
after  Italy  and  more  homelike  than  anything 
this  side  the  ocean.  In  pleasure-loving  Ger- 
man fashion  that  likes  to  make  a  huge  cele- 
bration of  every  possible  fact  of  life,  the  Frau 
Professor  had  garlands  and  Welcome  Home 
over  the  door  and  even  the  ugly,  kindly  old 
apple-woman  on  the  corner  flung  benisons  at 
Monica  as  she  passed.  "  It 's  a  dear  loving 
people,"  she  thought  gratefully,  and  was 
touched  anew,  being  often  in  her  heart  home- 
sick and  desolate. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  213 

Her  rooms  were  full  of  flowers  from  differ- 
ent friends.  On  her  desk  a  large  mail.  She 
examined  it  eagerly  —  a  letter  from  her 
mother,  nothing  from  Keith.  Her  books  and 
familiar  things  seemed  restful.  Her  heart  was 
full  and  she  thought  with  longing  of  her  true 
home,  yet  this  too  had  begun  to  be  a  sort  of 
home  to  her.  One  is  so  thankful  for  kindness, 
she  thought,  one  must  live,  after  all.  She 
looked  out  her  windows  at  the  noble  and  tran- 
quil view  she  loved,  and  began  to  examine  her 
flowers,  letters,  and  cards. 

Lorings.  Nice.  Count  and  Countess  Arco. 
Hm !  Baron  Lobanow.  Mr.  Forsyth.  The 
Smiths — surprises  me  !  Eleanor  —  how  dear  ! 
Excellenz  Ehrenstein  —  sweet  old  man ! 
Violets  from  Robert  —  dear  little  boy !  Actu- 
ally a  basket  from  my  colleagues  on  The  Nose- 
gay. Nice  men  !  How  good  they  all  are !  It's 
quite  touching,  really.  Beautiful  roses  from 
Lieutenant  Uhlefeldt.  Ah,  Elizabeth,  all  these 
are  from  the  dear  Frau  Professor.  And  this? 
A  massive  bouquet  surrounded  by  something 
like  a  crinoline  skirt  in  white  paper.  Professor 
Steiner.  No  !  "  She  dropped  it,  as  if  it  were 
infectious. 

"  Frau  Professor,"  she  said  to  that  lady,  who, 
beaming  with  pleasure,  now  entered  the  room, 


214  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  this  bouquet  surprises  me.  Why  should 
Professor  Steiner  presume  to  send  me  flowers? 
I  do  not  know  him,"  she  added  haughtily. 

"  He  takes  a  great  interest  in  you  all,"  the 
old  lady  returned  smiling,  and  with  a  flattered 
air.  "  He  has  been  here  three  times  to  talk 
with  me  about  you,  and  his  devotion  to 
Robert  is  creating  considerable  comment. 
Most  professors  of  his  standing  hold  them- 
selves apart,  you  know,"  she  explained  with 
the  evident  pride  of  one  belonging  by  annex- 
ation to  the  learned  fraternity.  "  But  he  and 
Robert  are  inseparable." 

"  His  devotion  to  Robert  is  all  very  well.  I 
understand  that.  I  adore  Rob  myself.  But  —  " 

Monica  saw  the  fine  old  face  turned  uncom- 
prehending toward  her.  She  perceived  that  a 
new  cap  adorned  the  pretty  gray  hair  and  that 
the  whole  house  was  in  gala,  that  unfeigned 
affection  and  delight  welcomed  her  back,  and 
she  could  not  selfishly  grumble  and  take  um- 
brage because  one  man  was  stupid,  which 
after  all  was  nothing  new  under  the  sun. 

"  Is  it  dinner  time?"  she  said,  knowing  that 
nothing  pleased  her  hostess  like  appetite.  "  I 
don't  doubt  you  have  made  a  famous  des- 
sert —  better  than  anything  I  Ve  tasted  in 
Rome  or  Milan." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  215 

"  Dear  child,"  returned  the  Frau  Professor, 
"  I  feel  as  if  my  daughter  had  come  home." 

On  the  following  day,  Monica  received  a 
brief  note  from  Professor  Steiner,  begging  her 
to  allow  him  the  pleasure  of  an  interview  to  dis- 
cuss some  very  important  matters  concerning 
Robert  McCarroll's  future.  With  her  permis- 
sion, Professor  Steiner  would  call  upon  her  the 
following  Sunday. 

It  was  cramped,  queer  handwriting,  and 
reading  it  Monica  frowned,  remembering  her 
antipathy  in  the  little  dusty  room  of  the  Gym- 
nasium, the  red  face,  the  pale  glassy  eyes :  re- 
calling too,  the  incomprehensible  insistence  of 
the  man,  and  how  he  had  bored  them  all 
through  beautiful  Italy  with  his  advice  and 
monitions.  The  letter  in  her  hand,  she  went 
at  once  to  the  Frau  Professor. 

"Will  you  read  this,  please?"  she  said. 

"  He  is  really  very  polite  and  attentive  "  re- 
joined the  old  lady  affably. 

Monica  remembered,  reasonably  enough, 
that  all  persons  are  not  unduly  sensitive  to 
physical  attraction  and  repulsion,  that  Professor 
Steiner's  personality  need  not  happily  seem  to 
every  one  like  a  crashing  dissonance,  and  that 
a  glowing  nose  is  not  wholly  incompatible 
with  virtue.  It  was  evident  that  she  and  Frau 


2 1 6  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Erhardt  regarded  him  from  very  different 
points  of  view.  The  Frau  Professor  was  a 
practical,  shrewd,  good  woman.  She  might, 
she  must,  know  her  own  townsmen  better  than 
a  girl  from  over  seas.  Vastly  less  belligerent 
and  more  modest  in  spirit  than  two  minutes 
before,  Monica  now  ventured  to  remark: 

"  I  cannot  conceive  why  he  wishes  to  speak 
with  me  instead  of  Elizabeth  about  Rob." 

"  I  do  not  know,  either,"  the  Frau  Professor 
responded  deferentially,  as  a  Roman  matron 
might  have  alluded  to  the  augurs.  "  But  Rob- 
ert seems  almost  more  influenced  by  you,  than 
by  Miss  McCarroll." 

"  Oh,  because  I  can  ride  a  wheel  and  know  a 
little  Latin,"  Monica  exclaimed  impatiently. 
"  Elizabeth  does  everything  for  the  boy." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  the  old  lady  said  sooth- 
ingly. "  But  you  seem  more  serious  than  Miss 
McCarroll.  Everybody  must  notice  that.  And 
of  course  Professor  Steiner  is  very  observing," 
she  concluded,  with  her  complacent  esprit  de 
corps. 

Monica,  much  dissatisfied  with  herself,  re- 
turned to  her  room.  It  seemed  to  her  she 
must  be  more  petty  than  she  suspected,  to 
make  so  much  of  a  trifle  and  to  feel  so  singu- 
larly averse  to  meeting  Professor  Steiner.  She 


The  Garden  of  Eden  217 

had  to  see  so  many  indifferent  people.  Why 
not  him?  Frau  Erhardt  thought  it  the  most 
natural  thing  in  life  that  he  should  come  to 
talk  with  her  about  Robert  McCarroll.  Very 
well.  Let  the  man  come  and  go,  then.  Mean- 
while she  had  a  large  mail  to  answer,  and 
something  to  write  for  The  Panyphone  and 
accumulated  duties  for  The  Nosegay.  These 
things  now  were  second  nature  to  her.  She 
bent  her  back  willingly  to  the  drudgery.  It 
had  ceased  to  be  a  remote  and  curious  thing. 
She  liked  it,  cared  to  do  it  well,  wished  she 
knew  how  to  do  it  better. 

On  the  following  Sunday,  at  twelve  o'clock, 
Professor   Steiner    rang    Frau    Professor    Er 
hardt's  door-bell. 

Monica  who  beyond  most  women  possessed 
the  gift  of  iciness,  rose  from  her  desk,  tall,  stiff, 
unsmiling,  and  motioned  him  to  a  chair.  She 
did  not  like  this  man.  She  did  not  know  why 
he  had  come.  She  had  instinctively  taken  the 
precautionary  measure  to  open  the  doors  into 
the  Frau  Professor's  drawing-room.  In  spite 
of  best  intentions,  she  felt  herself  on  guard, 
and  no  woman  was  ever  less  seductive  than 
she  made  herself  on  this  occasion. 

Professor  Steiner,  even  more  glassy  as  to  his 
eyes,  redder  as  to  his  face,  pearlier  as  to  his 


2 1 8  The  Garden  of  Eden 

trousers  and  shorter  as  to  his  waistcoat,  than 
she  remembered  him,  and  wearing  too  tight 
lavender  kid  gloves,  bowed  in  uncontrollable 
embarrassment  before  her.  His  want  of  ease 
roused  her  compassion  and  disarmed  her.  She 
was  sorry  for  him  as  for  any  mortal  writhing 
in  positive  physical  discomfort.  Her  forbid- 
ding mien  relaxed.  She  became  gentle,  as 
with  the  infirm  and  disabled. 

The  interview  was  brief,  hardly  ten  minutes. 
Noting  this,  the  Frau  Professor  nodded  her 
silvery  head  approvingly.  The  first  visit! 
How  punctilious  in  social  observance  were 
these  learned  men,  after  all ! 

Monica  had  not  the  heart  to  say  that  he 
had  not  uttered  a  word  about  Robert  McCar- 
roll,  but  had  merely  glared  glassily  at  her  and 
mumbled  broken  sentences  about  Greece  and 
Italy. 

On  the  following  Sunday,  at  twelve  o'clock, 
Professor  Steiner,  arrayed  as  before,  and  bear- 
ing boldly  in  his  too-tightly  gloved  right  hand 
a  compact  mass  of  variegated  blossoms,  en- 
circled by  a  frise  of  prickly  paper,  appeared 
unexpectedly  before  Monica,  and  in  one  and 
the  same  moment  roused  her  impatience  and 
appealed  to  her  tender  mercies.  He  was  so 
unpleasant  and  so  helpless,  so  grotesque  and 


The  Garden  of  Eden  219 

so  innocent,  she  could  but  do  her  best  to 
amuse  and  take  care  of  him.  She  showed 
him  her  beautiful  photographs  of  Rome  and 
Venice,  and  took  pains  to  entertain  him  with 
gentle  talk  of  her  journey  and  of  Robert,  whom 
Steiner,  of  himself,  never  once  mentioned. 
But  as  the  door  closed  behind  him  she  rallied, 
and  following  her  strongest  instinct  announced 
to  the  wondering  Frau  Erhardt : 

"  If  that  man  ever  comes  here  again,  I  am 
not  at  home." 

"  My  dear  child  !  A  professor,  and  so  emi- 
nent connections !  "  For  the  good  old  lady 
was  of  the  old  school  that  held  man's  will 
was  law. 

"  I  'm  sorry,  but  I  know  no  reason  why 
he  should  come  to  see  me.  His  wish  is  not 
sufficient.  He  distresses  me.  I  don't  know 
what  he  wants.  I  don't  know  what  he  means 
with  that  stare  and  that  bouquet  in  pan- 
telettes ! " 

Frau  Erhardt  smiled  wisely. 

"  When  a  man  like  him  calls  two  Sundays 
in  succession  and  brings  flowers  —  of  course 
he  has  intentions !  " 

"  With  us  a  man  can  come  every  Sunday, 
and  every  Wednesday  to  boot,  and  send  cart- 
loads of  flowers,  and  have  no  intentions  at  all, 


220  The  Garden  of  Eden 

except  nice  friendly  ones,  thank  heaven ! " 
Monica  responded ;  "  and  that  is  all  the  more 
reason  why  I  never  wish  to  see  Professor 
Steiner  again.  Please  say  I  am  busy.  Say 
anything  you  like." 

"  Well,  dear.  Of  course,  as  you  decide.  I 
could  have  wished,  indeed  —  and  I  hope  you 
are  acting  wisely  —  his  connections  are  so 
very  eminent." 

During  the  week  a  large  portfolio  of  photo- 
graphs of  Greece  was  sent  with  Professor 
Steiner's  compliments  for  Miss  Randolph's 
inspection.  Miss  Randolph  returned  them 
the  same  day  with  compliments  and  thanks. 

The  next  Sunday  he  came  resplendent  as 
before  and  bearing  another  barricaded  bou- 
quet. In  accordance  with  Monica's  instruc- 
tions he  was  not  granted  entrance,  but  the 
Frau  Professor  was  visibly  distressed,  and 
even  the  maid  looked  sympathetically  per- 
turbed. 

On  the  following  Sunday  Professor  Steiner 
and  his  bouquet  were  again  denied  admittance. 
The  Frau  Professor  thought  Monica  rather 
stony-hearted  and  was  not  a  little  dismayed 
at  the  prolonged  resistance  of  the  garrison. 
Monica,  innocent  of  the  slightest  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility toward  Professor  Steiner  and  his 


The  Garden  of  Eden  221 

eminent  connections,  regarded  the  matter  as 
a  brief  annoyance,  now  happily  removed. 
She  had  resumed  her  duties  with  unusual 
energy,  for  which  she  had  more  cause  than 
previously.  Eight  weeks  in  Italy  had  made 
a  noticeable  increase  in  her  expenditures,  and 
the  letter  which  met  her  arrival  announced 
that  Mrs.  Randolph's  speculations  were  rather 
wavering  and  gas  stock  had  fallen  abominably, 
so  that  she  must  still  postpone  coming,  but 
hoped  shortly  to  have  things  well  in  hand. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  it  seemed  to 
Monica  that  earning  money  might,  in  her 
case,  become  a  serious  thing  and  have  some 
meaning  and  dignity.  She  longed  greatly 
for  her  mother's  presence,  wondered  whether 
the  Italian  journey  had  not  been  almost 
selfishness.  Of  course  one  could  not  foretell 
ill  luck  in  speculations  of  which  one  knew 
nothing,  or  the  constant  depression  of  gas 
stock.  She  determined,  however,  to  write  as 
much  as  possible.  Another  book  might 
balance  the  gas  stock.  She  could  do  more 
little  things  too.  She  had  time  enough,  she 
thought  with  bitterness.  In  all  that  month, 
in  nearly  six  weeks  indeed,  there  was  no  letter 
from  Keith — no  reply  to  those  most  ardent, 
intense  appeals  from  Italy.  To  all  her  love 


222  The  Garden  of  Eden 

—  silence.  She  waited  drearily.  It  seemed 
to  her,  the  one  sure  and  comforting  thing  in 
life,  the  one  thing  entirely  her  own,  that 
would  never  change  and  never  fail,  was  her 
mother's  love. 

It  was  therefore  not  surprising  that  she 
deemed  Professor  Steiner's  eccentricities  of 
small  significance.  When  she,  Elizabeth,  and 
Eleanor  were  together,  and  one  jest  led  to 
another,  he  was  occasionally  the  subject  of 
some  irony,  which  seemed  in  justice  no  more 
than  his  due. 

"  Don't  be  too  secure,  Monica,"  Elizabeth 
warned  her,  as  the  three  sat  in  midnight  con- 
clave. "  Old  Pinky  will  throw  the  handker- 
chief yet !  " 

Monica  raised  her  eyebrows  and  said 
nothing. 

"  She  means  he  will,  in  that  case,  have  the 
pleasure  of  picking  it  up  himself,"  Eleanor 
suggested. 

"  Oh,  no,"  Monica  said  listlessly,  "  I  mean 
nothing  at  all.  He  will  have  no  chance  to 
pursue  his  whims  here  —  and  no  doubt  he 
has  abandoned  them.  Suppose  we  don't  talk 
of  him." 

"  Men  are  awkward  brutes,"  declared  Eliza- 
beth roundly,  "  and  twenty  centuries  more  or 


The  Garden  of  Eden  223 

less  have  taught  them  precious  little  sense. 
The  ones  you  don't  want  stick  closer  than  a 
brother,  and  the  one  you  do  want  —  " 

The  three  stared  rather  blankly  at  one 
another  and  presently  said  good  night 

It  was  early  in  July,  rather  more  than  a 
month  since  Monica's  return  from  Italy  that 
Elizabeth's  insolent  prophecy  was  fulfilled. 

Professor  Steiner  threw  the  handkerchief. 

In  the  most  straightforward  manner  in  the 
world  he  wrote  to  Monica  Randolph  and  of- 
fered her  his  heart,  hand,  and  house  in  Park 
Street.  He  mentioned  in  minute  detail  the 
exact  amount  of  his  capital  and  income,  the 
nature  of  his  investments,  and  his  yearly 
salary.  He  said  that  he  possessed  an  amiable 
disposition  and  eminent  connections  at  court, 
hence  was  confident  he  could  make  her  happy. 
He  declared  that  he  had  no  need  or  desire  to 
inquire  as  to  her  worldly  possessions ;  this 
point  was  supremely  indifferent  to  him,  his 
own  fortune  being  ample.  He  was  proud  to  lay 
it  at  her  feet  They  would  take  beautiful  jour- 
neys together.  Since  the  first  moment  he  had 
looked  upon  her  face,  a  year  since,  it  had 
haunted  him  sleeping  and  waking.  In  all  the 
loveliness  of  Greece  and  Italy  he  had  seen 
only  her.  He  had  sought  the  society  of  little 


224  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Rob  as  a  bond  of  connection  with  her.  She 
was  never  out  of  his  thoughts.  Her  ascend- 
ency over  him  was  supreme.  He  could  not 
in  words  express  his  devotion. 

He  ventured  to  look  for  a  speedy  and  favor- 
able reply  and  was  hers  sincerely,  Heinrich 
Steiner. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  225 


IX 


MONICA  was  confirmed  in  her  theory  that  it  is 
the  impossible  that  oftenest  happens.  She  de- 
plored but  resented  that  letter.  No  man  had 
the  right  to  present  an  offer  of  marriage  like  a 
pistol  at  one's  breast.  It  was  evident  too  that 
he  thought  he  was  doing  a  handsome  thing  in 
openly  stating  his  indifference  to  a  dot.  Mon- 
ica did  not  appreciate  this  magnanimity.  There 
was  a  loathsome  tone  of  confidence  and  puerile 
na'fvet6  pervading  the  letter.  That  a  woman 
in  her  senses  could  refuse  him,  his  house  in 
Park  Street,  his  ample  means,  and  his  eminent 
connections  evidently  did  not  occur  to  him  as 
a  remote  possibility.  It  was  intolerable  and 
to  her  odious  but  also  very  deplorable  for  his 
sake  that  nothing  had  restrained  him  from 
this  most  unwarrantable  step.  His  expres- 
sions of  devotion  made  her  shudder.  She 
recalled  his  unpleasing  personality,  as  she  had 
seen  him  once  in  the  little  room  in  the  Gym- 
nasium, twice  in  her  study  three  or  four  min- 
utes —  ten  minutes  —  fifteen  minutes  —  not  a 


226  The  Garden  of  Eden 

half  hour  in  all.  That  one  second  once  in  her 
own  experience  had  been  long  enough  for  the 
recognition  of  love,  she  did  not  remember. 
The  man  had  taken  an  unconscionable  liberty. 
This  was  most  distressing.  She  did  not,  how- 
ever, forget  that  the  result  was  going  to  be 
distressing  to  him  also. 

She  was  not  an  hysterical  woman,  but  this 
was  a  considerable  shock  to  her  nerves.  After 
rereading  Professor  Steiner's  letter  twice  care- 
fully, her  horror  increasing  rather  than  dimin- 
ishing, she  wrote  a  reply  in  three  lines,  her 
meaning  unmistakable,  her  language,  she 
hoped,  very  polite.  In  the  case  of  another 
person  she  would  have  been  the  first  to  per- 
ceive the  humor  of  the  situation.  As  things 
were  she  perceived  none.  That  instinct  which 
we  all  have  to  break  bad  news  gently,  not  to 
rouse  sleeping  children,  possessed  her.  Frame 
her  answer  as  she  would,  it  sounded  like  a 
brickbat  in  words.  She  was  much  troubled. 

"  The  Germans  are  so  much  more  circum- 
stantial than  we.  They  use  so  many  old- 
fashioned  phrases,  and  my  style  is  so  terribly 
direct.  Of  course  he  deserves  it — but  it  is 
going  to  strike  him  like  a  bomb,  he  is  so 
idiotically  unsuspicious,  so  helplessly  arro- 
gant." She  was  conscious  in  spite  of  her 


The  Garden  of  Eden  227 

indignation  of  a  sneaking  pity  for  her  ag- 
gressor. 

Pale,  feeling  altogether  shattered,  she  went 
over  to  the  Frau  Professor's  rooms. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  must  ask  you  to  look  at  these 
letters,"  Monica  said  quietly. 

Frau  Erhardt  had  been  a  little  dissatisfied 
with  Monica.  It  had  seemed  too  much  temer- 
ity for  a  mere  earth-born  woman  to  place  ob- 
stacles in  the  path  of  an  advancing  professor. 
But  now  the  old  lady  turned  cordially  to  her: 

"  Well,  I  am  astonished !  And  no  mortal 
can  hold  you  responsible.  That  is  certain. 
You  are  as  innocent  as  the  babe  unborn.  It 
is  all  a  great  pity.  Such  a  nice  house  — 
and  his  family  —  "  she  murmured  regretfully. 
"There's  not  a  girl  I  know  who  wouldn't 
jump  at  the  chance.  Still  —  " 

"  Is  my  German  all  right?  Is  it  phrasey 
and  longwinded  enough?  " 

"  It  is  very  pretty.     It  is  always  pretty." 

"  This  is  a  different  matter  from  ordinary 
German.  It  would  not  make  me  happy  to 
have  to  write  this  in  English,"  Monica  re- 
turned with  a  faint  smile. 

"  I  'm  sure  he  will  think  it  very  nice,"  the 
old  lady  assured  her  innocently,  "  fastidious 
as  he  is,  being  a  professor  —  " 


228  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  I  do  not  need  to  ask  you  never  to  allude 
to  this  to  me  or  to  any  one.  It  is  so  very 
painful." 

"  I  would  not  take  it  so  hard,  my  dear. 
After  all,  it  is  only  what  must  happen  now 
and  then  to  pretty  girls." 

"  No,  no.  Not  this.  There  was  no  reason 
for  this,"  Monica  rejoined,  her  face  sombre 
and  pained. 

"  To  be  sure ;  it  makes  it  doubly  weighty, 
he  being  so  learned,"  the  Frau  Professor 
nodded  wisely  in  complete  uncomprehension, 
her  traditional  veneration  for  him  vibrating 
with  honest  sympathy  for  Monica.  "  To 
think  of  all  the  valuable  time  he  wasted  send- 
ing advice  to  you  in  Italy." 

Monica  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  There  is  one  good  thing,"  she  returned 
rather  curtly.  "  This  is  the  end." 

"  Yes,"  sighed  the  Frau  Professor,  "  the  end 
indeed." 

Three  days  after  this  presumable  conclusion 
of  the  whole  matter,  Monica  received  a  letter 
from  Professor  Steiner.  The  head  of  Medusa 
could  hardly  have  petrified  her  more. 

"  Is  the  man  mad?  "  she  asked,  as  one  does, 
attaching  no  real  meaning  to  the  words. 

He  confided  to  her   in  veiled  and  delicate 


The  Garden  of  Eden  229 

language  that  he  by  no  means  entertained  the 
prevalent  prosaic  and  vulgar  conception  of 
marriage.  Could  not  Miss  Randolph,  re- 
assured by  this  pure  ideality  of  sentiment, 
deign  to  reconsider  her  decision,  consent  to 
merely  embellish  his  life,  to  adorn  his  study 
as  it  were,  and  thus  endow  with  vitality  the 
beautiful  vision  which  had  hovered  over  his 
lonely  path  in  Greece  and  Italy  and  which 
would  never  again  leave  him  while  he  lived. 

With  burning  cheeks,  no  solicitude  as  to 
style,  and  no  desire  to  discuss  this  extra- 
ordinary moonshine  proposal  with  any  mortal, 
Monica  presented  in  the  third  person  her 
compliments  to  Professor  Steiner,  and  begged 
to  state  that  her  decision  of  a  few  days  since 
was  absolutely  unconditional,  irrevocable,  and 
final.  It  occurred  to  her  that  one  such  ad- 
jective would  suffice  for  most  men,  but  it  was 
a  slight  relief  to  hurl  the  three  at  him,  to  write 
them  with  bold  precipitation,  and  to  affix  to 
her  envelope  a  rather  masculine  seal  stamped 
with  her  grandfather's  large  onyx  ring.  After 
which,  brief  foolish  tears  suffused  her  eyes. 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  brother !  "  she  thought 
helplessly.  "  The  man  makes  me  quite  silly. 
This  will  never  do."  She  wiped  her  eyes,  set 
her  lips,  and  went  to  work  manfully.  Beside 


230  The  Garden  of  Eden 

the  New  York  Panyphone,  she  was  now  work- 
ing for  the  Chicago  Unicum,  which  paid 
generously. 

Three  days  later  came  a  communication 
from  Professor  Heinrich  Steiner. 

"  This  is  persecution !  "  cried  Monica,  and 
asked  herself  whether  she  should  not  return 
the  letter  unopened,  but  read  it  notwithstand- 
ing, with  a  vague  curiosity  and  a  shiver  of 
apprehension,  to  see  what  enormity  it  might 
contain. 

It  requested  her  to  have  the  kindness  to 
inform  him  whether  it  were  true,  as  he  had 
heard,  that  she  was  about  to  marry  a  certain 
Frenchman.  Professor  Steiner  could  never 
endure  the  pain  of  seeing  her  on  the  arm  of 
another  man.  In  case  she  entertained  this 
intention,  he  had  determined,  although  most 
agreeably  situated  at  the  Gymnasium,  and 
naturally  more  comfortable  than  elsewhere 
in  his  own  house  and  among  his  own  family 
and  influential  connections,  to  apply  for  a  posi- 
tion in  the  Gymnasium  at  Leipzig.  He  begged 
her  to  acquaint  him  without  delay  and  with  per- 
fect confidence  in  his  discretion,  with  the  truth. 

Monica  now  lost  her  temper.  She  could 
not  at  once  decide  what  Frenchman  was 
dragged  into  this  affair.  She  knew  several 


The  Garden  of  Eden  23 1 

agreeable  Frenchmen  —  a  marquis,  a  consul, 
a  professor,  all  wholly  innocent  of  matrimonial 
designs  so  far  as  she  was  concerned.  She 
imagined  upon  the  whole  it  must  be  the  pro- 
fessor. He  had  once  lent  her  some  nice 
books.  But  the  marquis  had  picked  up  her 
fan,  and  had  sent  her  flowers  on  New  Year's 
Day.  No,  it  was  probably  the  professor.  In 
plain  English,  what  business  was  it  of  Profes- 
sor Steiner?  And  what  a  preposterous  mix- 
ture !  The  bit  of  sincere  feeling,  the  house, 
the  family,  the  connections,  and  the  practical 
question  of  the  professorship  in  Leipzig,  all 
marching  up  in  grotesque  array. 

She  laughed  nervously. 

"  It  is  not  worth  while  to  take  him  seriously, 
I  am  ashamed  that  he  exasperates  me  so. 
Besides,  there  can  be  no  doubt:  this  is  really 
the  end.  Beyond  this  even  he  cannot  go." 

Seizing  her  pen,  somewhat  trained  now  in 
the  service  of  The  PanypJione  and  The  Unicum, 
she  wrote  approximately  as  follows:  She 
would  deplore  being  to  any  man  the  innocent 
cause  of  his  exile  from  home  and  desirable 
associations.  Professor  Steiner  need  make  no 
change  whatever  in  his  habits  of  life  on  her 
account.  He  could  indeed  do  her  no  greater 
service  than  to  leave  her  henceforth  altogether 


232  The  Garden  of  Eden 

out  of  his  calculations.  Nothing  was  farther 
from  her  thoughts  than  marriage  with  any 
person  in  that  region,  and,  if  it  would  be  any 
satisfaction  to  him  he  was  welcome  to  it  — 
with  any  one  whomsoever  in  Europe,  Asia, 
Africa,  or  North  or  South  America.  She 
ventured  now,  having  nothing  whatever  to 
communicate  farther,  to  rely  upon  the  com- 
plete cessation  of  the  correspondence. 

Her  somewhat  fiery  defiant  and  foolish 
enumeration  of  the  geographical  divisions  of 
the  earth's  surface,  may  not  be  countenanced 
by  the  Ladies'  Complete  Letter-Writer,  under 
the  rubric  Rejected  Addresses.  But  it  must 
be  remembered  in  extenuation,  her  pen  was 
rapid,  her  spirit  not  naturally  slow,  and  great 
was  her  provocation.  A  wiser  head  than  hers 
may  grow  bewildered  and  desperate  in  similar 
circumstances,  and  reckless  in  defence.  Once 
more  she  availed  herself  of  the  moral  support 
—  it  seemed  to  be  all  she  had  —  of  her  grand- 
father's massive  seal-ring  with  the  crest  that 
was  born,  not  made. 

"What  is  old  Pinky  doing  in  these  days?" 
Elizabeth  inquired  maliciously. 

"  How  should  I  know?     I  never  see  him." 

"  Poor  Bob  says  he  shall  be  awfully  glad  to 
get  into  the  next  class  and  out  of  Professor 


The  Garden  of  Eden  233 

Steiner's  clutches.  Of  course  the  boy  hardly 
knows  how  to  shake  him  off.  He  insists 
upon  riding  and  walking  with  him  continually. 
Bob  says  it  is  no  end  tedious,  and  he  never 
has  any  fun  now  with  the  other  fellows.  On 
their  rides  Professor  Steiner  stares  silently  into 
space,  or  asks  questions  about  you." 

"  Which  must  be  exceedingly  entertaining 
to  Bob,"  Monica  said  uneasily.  "  But  his 
holidays  begin  soon." 

"  He  looked  very  dejected  this  morning. 
He  said  Professor  Steiner  was  going  to  write 
to  him  during  the  vacation." 

"  Poor  little  Bob  !  " 

The  Lorings  had  asked  her  to  spend  a 
couple  of  months  at  their  country  place,  a 
roomy  old  house  which,  with  its  historical 
associations,  legends,  ghost,  and  delightful 
surroundings,  Mr.  Loring  had  bought  cheap  of 
an  impoverished  and  nearly  extinct  noble 
family.  It  was  a  hill  and  lake  country, 
sweet  with  the  breath  of  the  Black  Forest.  In 
the  village  inn  Eleanor,  Elizabeth,  Robert,  and 
a  group  of  friends  took  up  their  abode. 
Boats,  wheels,  and  horses  provided  perpetual 
motion.  The  cool  woodpaths  and  the  long 
hot  white  roads  marked  by  tall  poplar-trees 
seemed  alive  with  bright  and  swift  silhouettes. 


234  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Monica  could  run  into  town  in  an  hour  by 
rail,  whenever  her  personal  presence  seemed 
desirable  in  The  Nosegay  office.  She  liked 
the  constant  companionship  of  Elizabeth  and 
Eleanor.  "  We  are  all  three  waifs  and  strays," 
she  thought  "  Each  has  her  secret  burden." 
They  bore  their  burdens  gallantly  in  those 
weeks,  it  is  but  fair  to  say.  They  took  them 
rowing  and  swimming,  they  galloped  them 
across  country,  they  went  spinning  with  them 
on  bicycles,  they  climbed  long  hills  on  foot  — 
they  made  hay  with  the  peasants  and  rode 
home  on  the  funny  little  carts ;  and  after  these 
innocent  dissipations  sometimes  in  the  dusk 
and  quiet  of  evening,  the  burdens  would  take 
their  revenge  for  all  the  giddy  jolting  and 
would  oppress  the  trio  with  a  sombre  heavi- 
ness of  spirit.  They  would  then  philosophize 
in  dark  disconnected  hints  —  or  sit  silent  and 
listless  until  Elizabeth  revived  them  with  a  bit 
of  cynical  wisdom,  or  Mr.  Loring  would  come 
to  have  a  tough  theological  tussle  with  Monica. 

Meanwhile,  clever  little  Eleanor  was  writing 
an  essay  upon  South  German  dialects,  and 
Monica  was  studying  her  peasant  friends,  look- 
ing into  their  manner  of  life,  their  work,  their 
earnings,  their  food,  their  crops,  their  hard- 
ships, their  limitations,  their  love-making  and 


The  Garden  of  Eden  235 

their  marriages  —  particularly  the  last  two 
themes.  A  peasantry  with  so  long  a  pedigree 
is  an  aristocracy  like  any  other.  Monica  had 
long  since  recovered  from  that  optical  illusion 
peculiar  to  the  amiable  foreigner  inclined  at 
the  outset  to  regard  as  through  an  inverted 
telescope  a  German  red-roofed  hamlet  as  a 
sort  of  child's  toy  village  and  its  men  and 
women  as  promenading  dolls.  She  was  aware 
of  their  human  proportions,  and  discovered 
each  day  more  sense  and  mother  wit  in  their 
simplicity.  She  observed  them  and  their  con- 
ditions merely  because  they  interested  her  and 
she  enjoyed  talking  with  them,  but  as  yet, 
unfortunately,  The  P any  phone  and  The  Unicum 
profited  little  from  her  data.  Flowers  and 
froth  still  predominated  in  her  writings  for  the 
eye  of  the  public. 

Elizabeth  usually  interfered  as  much  as  was 
possible  —  and  great  were  her  resources  in  the 
field  of  teasing  —  with  their  sensible  work  in 
any  direction.  Having  wearied  and  annoyed 
them  sufficiently,  she  would  sing  like  an  angel 
until  they  adored  her.  Lieutenant  Uhlefeldt 
spent  two  days  in  the  village.  She  treated  him 
no  better  than  them,  but  after  he  was  gone, 
she  had  long  silent  fits  or  was  irritable  as  at 
first  in  Italy. 


236  The  Garden  of  Eden 

During  that  entire  summer,  Monica  received 
but  one  small  note  from  Keith.  It  seemed  to 
her,  if  she  could  understand  it  she  could  bear 
it  better.  If  she  should  go  home  and  see  him 
face  to  face?  But  if  he  did  not  care  to  see 
her?  Was  that  possible?  The  thought  made 
her  chilly  round  the  heart.  But  he  never  an- 
swered her.  He  seemed  not  to  see  or  hear 
what  she  said.  She  was  not  resigned.  She 
clung  fast.  But  she  wrote  little,  from  pure 
discouragement  and  bewilderment,  not  from 
wounded  pride.  When  she  was  most  home- 
sick and  desperate,  she  would  usually  go  off 
on  a  long  bicycle  ride  with  Bob.  Women 
with  heartaches  used  to  sit  in  stuffy  little 
bowers  and  tarnish  their  gold  embroidery  with 
tears.  Men  with  heartaches  could  go  to  the 
wars,  a  far  more  healthful  diversion.  But 
woman  has  come  forth  from  her  stuffy  little 
bower  —  like  the  genius  from  the  bottle  —  and 
no  power  can  thrust  her  back.  Future  gen- 
erations will  rise  up  and  call  her  blessed  that 
she,  after  centuries  of  slumber,  awoke  to  the 
cheerful  truth  that  mental  work,  air,  and  exer- 
cise are  no  less  womanly  and  chaste  than 
immoderate  moaning  and  stitching. 

Professor  Steiner  was  trying  the  air  of  the 
High  Engadine  for  his  health.     He  wrote  to 


The  Garden  of  Eden  237 

Bob  twice  a  week,  giving  the  boy  elaborate 
descriptions  of  Alpine  scenery,  which  he 
skipped,  and  messages  to  Monica,  which  he 
roguishly  delivered.  She  heard  them  in  silence 
and  with  a  haughty  stare  of  incredulity,  which 
made  Bob  laugh. 

In  the  early  autumn  they  returned  to  town. 
Rob  McCarroll  in  the  natural  course  of  things 
passed  on  to  the  next  class,  and  exulted  that 
he  was  now  free  from  his  incubus.  His  re- 
joicing was  premature. 

Professor  Steiner  wrote  a  long  letter  not  to 
Elizabeth,  but  singularly  enough  to  Monica, 
desiring  to  continue  his  rides  with  Rob,  for- 
mally proposing  to  adopt  the  boy  legally,  and 
having  resigned  all  hope  of  domesticity  he 
desired  this  consolation. 

Monica  with  no  comment  passed  the  docu- 
ment over  to  Elizabeth,  who  did  not  scruple  to 
express  her  indignation. 

"  Adopt  my  Robert,  will  he  !  The  imperti- 
nent puppy !  What  has  Robert  McCarroll,  the 
sixteenth  of  his  name,  to  do  with  old  Pinky's 
lost  domesticity?  Monica,  what  is  the  matter 
with  the  man?  Wait.  I'll  give  him  a  dose." 

Which  she  did,  then  and  there.  Monica 
watched  her  with  a  curious  expression  and  a 
very  human  sense  of  satisfaction.  This  time  it 


238  The  Garden  of  Eden 

was  Elizabeth's  turn  to  flush  and  look  uncom- 
fortable. 

"  How  is  that  for  a  quietus?" 

"  I  suppose  you  know  that  it  is  very  imper- 
tinent," suggested  Monica,  it  must  be  confessed 
without  disapproval. 

"So  was  he.  Shall  I  be  polite  to  a  man 
who  proposes  to  kidnap  a  child?" 

Monica  laughed,  rather  exhilarated  by  Eliz- 
abeth's wrath,  and  said  lightly : 

"  Send  it  then.  It  is  strong,  and  I  hope  it 
will  prove  efficacious." 

In  that  pleasant  autumn  weather  Monica  and 
Elizabeth  were  riding  perhaps  once  in  the  week 
with  Leo  Uhlefeldt  and  Mr.  Forsyth,  an  Eng- 
lish attached  They  would  select  some  rather 
distant  village,  meet  the  old  Baron  von  Uhle- 
feldt there,  and  take  supper  merrily  under  his 
suave  protection.  By  what  magic  Leo  induced 
him  to  countenance  these  few  rides,  and  receive 
Elizabeth  with  such  amiability,  Monica  never 
understood.  Perhaps  Leo  had  given  up  an  extra 
race-horse  or  made  some  similar  stupendous 
sacrifice.  At  all  events,  the  old  baron  was 
always  on  the  spot,  gallant,  debonair,  and  kind, 
charmed  with  Elizabeth  in  every  way  except,  as 
subsequent  events  proved,  in  the  role  of  daugh- 
ter-in-law. She  took  the  little  pleasure  parties 


The  Garden  of  Eden  239 

as  they  came,  and,  being  shrewd  behind  her 
levity,  drew  no  erroneous  conclusions.  After 
the  unlimited  freedom  of  the  summer,  it  was 
delightful  to  her  and  Monica  to  mount  spirited 
animals,  and  escorted  by  bright-faced  cava- 
liers, feel  the  cool  air  strike  the  cheek  and  hear 
the  splendid  rhythm  of  five  horses'  hoofs  in 
long  steady  trot  out  through  the  shady  park 
into  clear  country  ways. 

The  day  after  the  first  of  these  excursions, 
Monica  received  a  letter  from  Professor  Steiner, 
who  courteously,  and  as  if  there  were  no  im- 
aginable reason  why  he  should  not  write  to 
her,  proposed  himself  as  cavalier  and  escort  on 
her  riding  parties.  Nothing,  he  affably  re- 
marked, would  afford  him  more  sincere  pleas- 
ure than  to  point  out  to  Miss  Randolph  and 
her  friend  Miss  McCarroll  the  beauties  of  the 
landscape  and  the  points  of  historical  interest 
in  that  region,  and  no  one,  he  ventured  to  flat- 
ter himself  was  better  acquainted  than  he  with 
his  native  country. 

"  I  will  never  write  a  word  to  the  man  again, 
and  I  will  not  read  his  letters,"  Monica  now 
declared  to  the  Frau  Professor,  who  of  her 
own  free  will  undertook  to  bring  him  to 
reason  with  a  little  mild  and  motherly  ex- 
postulation, and  called  upon  him  at  the 


240  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Gymnasium  for  this  purpose.  She  returned 
much  elated.  He  had  seemed  overjoyed  to 
see  her,  asked  repeatedly  if  Miss  Randolph 
had  sent  her,  agreed  eagerly  with  all  that  she 
said,  begged  her  to  give  his  best  regards  to 
Miss  Randolph,  and  to  assure  her  he  was  in 
every  way  at  her  service,  regretted  if  in  his 
zeal  his  letters  had  seemed  too  frequent,  and 
hoped  the  Frau  Professor  would  honor  him 
with  a  speedy  repetition  of  her  visit,  held  him- 
self entirely  at  her  orders  and  would,  at  any 
hour  she  would  name,  present  himself  at  her 
house. 

"  He  was  exceedingly  polite,  not  at  all  im- 
portunate, and  I  really  think,  my  dear,  you 
will  have  no  more  trouble,"  she  concluded. 

But  Monica's  heart  sank.  She  foresaw  that 
Frau  Erhardt's  well-meant  intervention  would 
inflame  him  like  direct  encouragement.  It 
was  now  October,  and  his  letters  began  to 
snow  and  drift  upon  her  like  one  of  the 
plagues  of  Egypt.  One,  two,  sometimes  three 
in  a  day.  She  undertook  to  return  them  un- 
opened. But  beside  feeling  a  strong  aversion 
to  even  this  tacit  and  repressive  form  of  com- 
munication with  him,  she  thought  that  she 
perceived  a  distinct  response  in  larger,  heavier 
and  more  frequent  letters,  every  time  that  her 


The  Garden  of  Eden  241 

handwriting  readdressed  one  of  his  envelopes. 
She  therefore  decided  to  be  absolutely  passive 
and  endure  what  she  saw  no  way  to  avoid. 
No  doubt  in  the  course  of  human  events  he 
would  tire  of  this  fruitless  senseless  pursuit. 
She  tossed  each  letter  as  it  came  into  a  box 
and  grimly  turned  a  key  on  the  uninviting 
mystery. 

But  poor  little  Rob  McCarroll  was  also 
cursed  with  the  plague  of  letters,  if  not  so 
mercilessly  as  she,  yet  frequent  and  harass- 
ing enough  for  a  school-boy.  Professor 
Steiner  expressed  himself  as  extremely  hurt 
and  pained  by  the  ingratitude  of  his  young 
friend,  who  would  no  longer  ride  with  him  or 
come  down  to  his  house  to  supper.  Rob 
begged  off  as  well  as  he  could,  pleaded  his 
new  duties  and  new  divisions  of  time,  all  of 
which  was  quite  true,  and  added  frankly,  be- 
sides he  had  promised  some  fellows  to  ride 
with  them.  But  his  arguments  had  no  weight 
with  Professor  Steiner,  who  pushed  them 
aside  and  re-began  his  plaint.  One  day  he 
accosted  the  boy  in  the  playground  and  said 
he  had  insulted  him  and  must  give  him  satis- 
faction. Rob  being  an  obliging  child  replied 
politely  that  he  should  be  only  happy,  if  the 
Professor  would  only  wait  until  he  could  learn 
16 


242  The  Garden  of  Eden 

how  to  fight  duels,  that  none  of  the  fellows 
of  his  class  knew  how  yet. 

Elizabeth  now  interfered.  She  made  her 
second  appearance  in  that  little  room  in  the 
Gymnasium,  and  was  prepared  to  request 
Professor  Steiner  in  the  most  forcible  lan- 
guage of  her  vocabulary  to  cease  to  molest 
her  brother. 

"  Monica,"  she  said  excitedly  as  she  re- 
turned from  her  unsuccessful  quest,  "  you 
know  I  was  not  afraid,  you  know  I  was  fierce. 
Of  course  one  is  never  so  fierce  before  the 
enemy  as  behind  his  back.  Still  you  know 
me,  you  believe  I  was  fierce  ?  " 

"  You  were  very  fierce,"  Monica  assured 
her  warmly. 

"  Well,  he  disarmed  me.  He  was  in  the 
seventh  heaven  of  delight.  He  would  not 
listen  to  a  word  I  said  about  Bob.  He  in- 
sisted upon  regarding  me  as  your  envoy.  He 
sent  you  all  sorts  of  voluble  messages.  I 
could  do  nothing  with  him.  I  was  helpless. 
The  man  is  most  eccentric.  I  think  he  has 
a  bee  in  his  bonnet." 

"  I  am  sure  he  has,"  Monica  agreed,  but 
neither  felt  the  sinister  meaning  of  her  own 
words. 

Every  day  the  letters  came  and  were  de- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  243 

posited  in  the  locked  box.  Sometimes  Rob 
brought  them,  when  they  were  not  in  en- 
velopes but  folded  in  queer  shapes,  boats, 
stars,  and  flowers.  They  made  Monica  feel 
quite  ill,  but  she  said  nothing  more.  She 
had  at  times  a  certain  donkey-like  patience 
and  it  was  not  easy  for  her  to  complain  long 
in  one  key.  She  often  asked  herself  if  there 
were  absolutely  nothing  to  be  done.  But  the 
fact  that  the  man  had  made  her  a  proposal 
of  marriage  precluded  any  appeal  for  advice 
or  help  from  stern  men.  At  least  it  seemed 
so  to  her.  It  was  a  part  of  her  traditions. 
His  letters  were  an  assault  like  stones,  but  she 
did  not  know  how  to  defend  herself  or  to  be- 
tray him.  It  will  be  observed  that  Monica 
was  sometimes  lamentably  dense. 

The  mere  arrival  of  letters  that  one  has 
made  up  one's  mind  not  to  read,  may  seem  a 
trifling  matter.  In  these  circumstances  it  was 
to  Monica  an  oppression,  an  outrage,  an  in- 
cursion upon  her  personal  freedom.  She  was 
tempted  to  burn  them  in  disgust,  but  some 
warning  instinct  restrained  her,  and  she  kept 
them  all,  hoarded  as  carefully  as  Keith's.  The 
irony  of  a  flood  of  letters  from  this  so  repug- 
nant source,  when  her  heart  was  famishing  for 
letters,  only  for  letters,  from  over  the  sea ! 


244  The  Garden  of  Eden 

A  relief  to  sombre  meditations  were  the 
Saturday  rides  which  continued  into  Novem- 
ber. A  horse  to  one  who  loves  him  is  a  cure 
for  many  ills.  Upon  the  old  baron  devolved 
the  agreeable  responsibility  of  choosing  the 
inn  and  ordering  their  supper.  He  possessed 
talent  for  this  office,  and  surprised  them  with 
the  variety  and  elasticity  of  his  appointments. 
It  was  a  Thursday.  That  week  Monica  had 
received  four  or  five  letters  a  day  from  Pro- 
fessor Steiner,  and  felt  like  a  hunted  animal. 
Rob  reported  that  the  professor  was  not  well, 
not  in  town,  the  boys  in  his  class  said.  How- 
ever that  was,  every  post  brought  a  letter  from 
him.  "  When  God  wills,  all  winds  bring  rain," 
she  thought  wearily. 

That  evening  Elizabeth  announced  that  they 
would  start  as  early  as  two  o'clock  on  Satur- 
day, and  ride  to  the  Rosenhof.  She  was 
moody  and  fitful,  and  finally  said :  "  I  am 
afraid  it  is  the  last  ride.  Never  mind.  We  '11 
have  a  revel  and  die  game."  Monica  asked 
no  questions,  but  thought  she  understood. 

On  Friday  morning  came  a  letter  from  Pro- 
fessor Steiner,  and  across  the  envelope  was 
written,  For  God's  sake  read  this!  Monica 
read  it. 

It  asked  in  a  sort  of  frenzy  why  she  was  so 


The  Garden  of  Eden  245 

cruel?  Why  she  treated  him  with  silent  con- 
tempt? How  had  he  deserved  her  scorn? 
Why  was  he  alone  unworthy  of  any  kindness? 
He  had  been  begging  her  for  weeks  now 
to  ride  with  him.  She  rode  with  other  men. 
Why  not,  then,  with  him?  Was  he  not  a  man 
of  gentle  associations?  Was  he  not  fit  for  the 
society  of  ladies?  And  she  who  looked  so 
kind,  so  good,  she  whose  sweet  face  haunted 
him  day  and  night,  how  could  she  be  so  hard, 
so  merciless?  For  the  last  time  he  begged 
her  to  have  pity.  She  did  not  dream  the 
harm  she  was  doing,  the  incalculable,  fatal 
harm.  If  she  had  a  woman's  heart  within  her 
breast,  he  begged  her  to  ride  with  him  on  Sat- 
urday, and  to  send  her  answer  to  his  house. 
For  the  last  time  he  begged  her  to  accede  to 
his  request  —  to  prevent  unspeakable  anguish, 
to  avert  a  horrible  catastrophe. 

Monica  groaned  aloud,  yet  did  not  compre- 
hend. Had  she  been  a  psychic  expert  she 
would  have  known  how  to  interpret  both  the 
handwriting,  and  the  broken,  irrational  re- 
proaches. But  she  was  wholly  without  knowl- 
edge of  insanity,  and  towards  no  other  frailty 
of  our  poor  mortal  bodies,  is  the  laity  so  alto- 
gether helplessly  and  vastly  ignorant. 

This  man   had   been  to   Monica   from   the 


246  The  Garden  of  Eden 

first,  let  it  be  said  without  heartlessness  —  a 
monstrosity.  Unnatural,  indelicate,  repugnant, 
impossible,  was  his  whole  course  in  her  esti- 
mation. She  had  endured  much  from  him. 
She  had  done  her  best  to  bear  it  quietly. 
This  letter  was  like  all  the  rest,  but  intensified, 
gaining  in  gloomy  horror.  She  felt  wretched, 
full  of  vague  foreboding,  but  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  take  herself  to  task  for  nervousness. 
She  said  nothing  about  the  letter,  which  she 
locked  immediately  into  the  box,  now  so  full 
the  cover  would  hardly  shut. 

"  He  has  tried  unfair  means  with  me  from 
the  first.  Now  it  is  melodrama.  I  cannot 
answer  him.  I  did  wrong  to  read  the  letter. 
No  doubt  some  of  the  others  are  quite  as  bad." 
Still  she  felt  powerfully  depressed. 

On  Friday  evening  Bob  McCarroll  brought 
the  perturbing  news  that  Professor  Steiner 
was  staying  for  a  few  days  at  the  Rosenhof. 
At  least  Bob  thought  that  was  the  name.  He 
had  not  heard  quite  distinctly.  There  were 
so  many  little  inns  called  some  kind  of  a 
Hof  :  Bienenhof  —  Blumenhof  —  Lindenhof. 
He  could  not  positively  say  it  was  Rosenhof. 

Monica  stared  at  him  in  wretched  silence. 
Elizabeth  cried : 

"  Of  course  it  is  not  Rosenhof,  you  foolish 


The  Garden  of  Eden  247 

Bob !  Why  should  even  that  kill-joy  alight 
upon  exactly  our  picnic?  I  do  not  believe  it." 

"  Well,  I  '11  find  out  exactly  to-morrow  morn- 
ing and  tell  you  in  time,"  Rob  promised  cheer- 
fully. "I  really  did  not  pay  attention.  Beth 
did  not  tell  me  until  to-night  where  you  would 
ride,  and  then  suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  the 
fellows  said  Steiner  was  staying  at  the  Rosen- 
hof,  but  it  may  be  all  my  fancy." 

"Why  should  the  wretch  be  out  there?" 
demanded  Elizabeth.  "  Of  course  it  is  your 
fancy." 

"  I  always  think  he 's  everywhere,"  Rob 
admitted.  "  He  makes  a  fellow  so  uncomfort- 
able, you  know.  But  he  was  awfully  nice  to 
me  at  first.  He  told  me  no  end  of  fine  things. 
That  is  why  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  him 
when  he  acts  so  queer.  I  'd  like  him  again  if 
he  would  n't  bother  me,"  the  boy  said  rather 
dolefully. 

"  Elizabeth,  I  think  we  'd  better  give  up  the 
ride  to-morrow  altogether,"  Monica  proposed 
with  decision.  "  If  there  is  the  faintest  possi- 
bility of  meeting  that  man  at  the  Rosenhof,  we 
cannot  go  there.  And  it  seems  to  me  we  'd 
better  not  ride  in  any  direction.  I  cannot 
explain  why  things  look  '  lurid,'  as  you  say, 
to  me.  But  I  have  an  instinct  it  is  better  to 


248  The  Garden  of  Eden 

remain  at  home.  If  you  will  write  to  Lieu- 
tenant von  Uhlefeldt,  I  will  attend  to  Mr. 
Forsyth." 

"  How  can  you  attach  so  much  importance 
to  a  thing  Bob  himself  says  he  only  half 
heard?  For  my  part  I  cry  no  quarter  to 
Pinky.  He  may  be  at  the  Rosenhof  with  his 
stare,  his  rosy  locks,  his  red  nose  and  his  pearl- 
gray  trousers.  I  should  pay  no  more  heed  to 
him  than  to  a  fly  on  the  window-pane.  I  do 
not  understand  you,  Monica." 

"  I  would  not  go  for  all  the  world  if  he  were 
there,"  said  Monica  vehemently. 

"  He  is  not  there,  I  tell  you,  great  soft- 
hearted baby!  He  is  in  his  house  in  Park 
Street.  Bob,  run  out  and  be  nice  to  the  Frau 
Professor.  Monica,  it  is  the  last  ride,  the  very 
last !  Be  good  and  dear !  Some  day  I  will 
tell  you  things.  I  know  you  love  me.  I  want 
to  go  to-morrow.  You  surely  are  not  going  to 
sacrifice  me  to  that  old  ghoul?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  all  I  know  and  feel  and 
dread,"  replied  Monica.  "  I  will  simply  say  I 
am  greatly  distressed.  I  do  not  pretend  to 
understand  why  I  fear  that  man.  But  I  have 
a  great  horror  of  everything  concerning  him. 
He  has  troubled  me  rather  more  than  you 
know." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  249 

"Beast!  "  exclaimed  Elizabeth. 

"  He  has  troubled  me  more  than  I  like  to 
admit.  It  seems  a  sort  of  weakness  to  suffer  so 
for  people  to  whom  one  is  indifferent.  I  would 
not  once  have  believed  it  possible.  And  I  pre- 
sume I  exaggerate,  that  I  am  morbid.  When 
one  thinks  of  a  thing  continually  —  " 

"  Of  course !  Nothing  is  more  natural.  I 
always  tell  you,  you  are  too  sensitive.  But 
see,  you  dear  sweet  thing,  I  have  my  reasons 
for  wanting  to  ride  to-morrow.  Don't  desert 
me  for  a  nervous  apprehension.  I  beg  you  to 
go  if  you  love  me.  It  is  the  last  time  —  "  and 
Elizabeth  clasped  her  with  loving  arms  and 
pleaded  with  ardent  voice  and  hungry  eyes. 

"  I  will  ride  somewhere  with  you  to- 
morrow," Monica  said,  pushing  the  hair  back 
from  her  forehead  nervously,  "  since  you  wish 
it  so  sorely.  For  my  part,  I  hardly  know 
why,  I  would  rather  stay  at  home.  But  under 
no  consideration,  understand  me  well,  will  I 
ride  to  the  Rosenhof  if  Professor  Steiner  is 
lurking  anywhere  in  the  neighborhood." 

"  He  is  not,  you  will  see,"  laughed  Eliza- 
beth. "  Only  let  a  bore  work  long  enough 
and  he  commands  the  very  elect.  You  and 
Bob  tremble  at  the  very  name  of  Pinky." 

"  Oh  no,  it  is  not  that,"  protested  Monica. 


250  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  But  all  the  same  you  are  right.  I  owe  more 
to  my  affection  for  you  than  I  owe  to  my 
repugnance  toward  him.  You  may  depend 
upon  me,  dear,  for  your  last  ride.  Of  course 
we  can  easily  avoid  him." 

Toward  twelve  o'clock  on  the  Saturday 
morning  Leo  von  Uhlefeldt  had  the  honor  to 
inquire  if  the  young  ladies  were  of  one  mind 
and  all  was  in  readiness.  Elizabeth  lightly 
alluded  to  Monica's  scruples. 

"  But  Steiner  is  certainly  off  color,"  the 
lieutenant  asserted  cheerfully.  "  A  brother  of 
his  has  already  gone  the  same  path.  It  is 
unfortunate,  but  what  has  it  to  do  with  us? 
We  are  not  responsible  for  him.  Meanwhile 
my  father  has  telegraphed  to  the  Rosenhof  for 
supper.  Papa  hates  to  be  thwarted  even  in 
little  things.  Of  course  there  is  still  time  to 
countermand  the  order — but  papa  has  taken 
pains.  And  why  indeed  should  one  inquire  as 
to  the  other  guests  in  a  country  inn  where  one 
happens  to  sup?" 

Monica  replied  that  she  should  be  im- 
mensely sorry  to  annoy  the  baron  and  inter- 
fere with  his  pleasant  plans  —  and  the  pains  he 
had  taken  for  them  all.  She  hoped,  indeed, 
it  would  not  be  necessary.  All  depended 
however  upon  the  news  Rob  should  shortly 


The  Garden  of  Eden  251 

bring  from  school.  She  could  only  say,  first 
and  last,  for  her  the  Rosenhof  was  simply 
impossible,  were  even  Professor  Steiner's 
shadow  there. 

The  lieutenant  deprecated  this  serious  view 
of  things,  Elizabeth  jested  valiantly,  Monica 
persisted,  and  all  waited  for  Robert,  who  pres- 
ently ran  in  and  announced  breathlessly  and 
with  splendid  security: 

"  It  was  all  a  fraud.  He  is  not  anywhere 
out  of  town.  He  is  here.  Half  a  dozen  fel- 
lows in  his  own  class  told  me  that  they  have 
spoken  with  him  this  morning.  So  you  can 
ride  over  the  wide  wide  world." 

No  one  doubted  the  authenticity  of  this 
information. 

They  set  out  at  two  o'clock  in  the  cool  air, 
with  the  merry  rhythm  of  twenty  crisp  hoofs 
and  the  sound  of  bright  voices  and  laughter. 
Making  good  time,  all  strong  and  able  riders, 
they  drew  up  toward  five  o'clock  with  a  cheer- 
ful clatter  before  the  portico  of  the  little  inn 
called  the  Rosenhof,  where  the  old  Baron  von 
Uhlefeldt  received  them  with  a  certain  pride. 
They  were  indeed  a  goodly  company. 

Later,  in  the  bright  front  room,  the  five  sat 
at  table  and  ate  and  drank  and  jested  and 
laughed.  The  old  baron  was  a  jovial  man, 


252  The  Garden  of  Eden 

fond  of  the  society  of  young  people.  He  was 
affable  too,  for  which  he  greatly  admired  him- 
self, to  mine  host,  and  praised  with  amiable 
patronage  his  fat  capons  and  his  wines.  This 
should  be  the  last  of  these  little  feasts,  the  old 
baron  had  decided.  Elizabeth  was  a  charming 
girl.  Personally  he  liked  her  much.  But  it 
was  out  of  the  question.  Leo  must  marry  in 
his  own  set,  in  society  as  his  father  had  done 
before  him.  That  Leo's  father  had  had  a 
singularly  uncomfortable  matrimonial  experi- 
ence and  not  drawn  a  free  breath  in  thirty 
years,  hence  was  now  revelling  in  his  widower- 
hood,  the  old  baron  did  not  permit  for  an 
instant  to  influence  his  judgment.  Florence 
Arco  was  the  one.  Leo  had  hung  back 
long  enough.  The  boy  had  taste.  Elizabeth 
McCarroll  was  a  fascinating  sparkling  witch. 
How  pretty  they  both  looked,  bright  eyes, 
bright  cheeks,  bright  lips,  all  brightness  from 
the  crisp  air.  Well,  this  being  the  last  little 
supper,  it  should  be  a  success,  it  should  be  a 
real  merry-making — and  he  turned  gallantly 
to  Elizabeth  with  a  devotion  that  rivalled  his 
son's. 

Leo  went  out  one  instant  to  cast  one  glance 
at  the  horses,  and  by  chance  heard  from  a 
groom  that  Professor  Steiner  was  staying  at 


The  Garden  of  Eden  253 

the  Rosenhof,  that  is,  "  He  's  here  and  he 's 
not  here.  They  say  he  's  gone  to  town,  and 
then  you  see  him.  And  he 's  got  a  mighty 
queer  eye,  sir.  If  my  dog  had  that  eye,  sir, 
I  'd  shoot  him,  sir." 

This  information  gave  young  Uhlefeldt  a 
sense  of  discomfort  he  could  hardly  explain. 
"  It  is  rather  awkward,"  he  thought.  "  But 
we  are  here  and  we  cannot  help  it.  It  will  be 
all  right  if  only  the  ladies  suspect  nothing. 
I  'm  afraid  they  would  want  to  go  instantly, 
and  we  should  lose  this  last  evening.  The 
poor  fellow  must  be  quite  daft,"  he  said  care- 
lessly, and  went  back  to  the  bright  little  room 
where  all  were  in  gay  spirits  and  friendly  and 
charming  one  with  another  and  time  sped 
swiftly,  and  Elizabeth  sang,  and  the  old  baron 
was  loath  to  let  them  go,  and  grew  rather 
sentimental  himself,  as  old  boys  of  sixty-four 
are  wont  to  do  after  a  good  supper  with  youth, 
beauty,  and  excellent  wines,  and  it  was  after 
eight  o'clock  when  the  baron's  victoria  and  the 
five  horses  were  assembled  in  the  little  circle 
of  light  before  the  inn,  and  the  grooms  tramped 
about  and  swung  lanterns  and  the  beautiful 
eager  animals  leaped  upon  the  bit. 

From  the  dark  window  above,  a  poor  dis- 
tracted man  looked  upon  the  cheerful  noisy 


254  The  Garden  of  Eden 

picture.  In  this  tragedy  all  parts  dovetailed  as 
if  demons  had  made  the  measurements. 

The  old  baron  rolled  himself  in  his  rugs  and 
prepared  to  drive  off  in  his  victoria. 

"  Let  Jeannette  lead,"  he  privately  advised 
his  son,  "  or  there  will  be  the  devil  to  pay. 
One  would  think  it  was  the  horses  that  had 
had  the  champagne,"  he  chuckled.  "  How  the 
brutes  dance !  " 

"  They  '11  be  all  right  as  soon  as  we  are  off," 
returned  Leo. 

The  ladies  mounted.  The  men  swung  them- 
selves into  the  saddles.  The  smart  groom  took 
his  place. 

"  Give  Jeannette  her  head,  Miss  Randolph, 
and  talk  to  her,  pet  her,"  called  the  old  baron. 

"  I  know !  "  cried  Monica  joyfully,  for  she 
dearly  loved  a  horse.  Turning,  she  smiled 
back  at  him  with  confidence  and  a  little 
gesture  of  farewell.  The  light  of  a  groom's 
lantern  gleamed  upon  her  happy  face. 

Off  into  the  dark  night  sped  the  swift  riders. 
Far  down  the  hard  road  resounded  the  rhythm 
of  clattering  hoofs. 

The  tortured  man  turned  from  the  window. 
He  lighted  a  candle  and  began  to  write 
unintelligible  illegible  mad  words,  among 
which  afterwards  some  uncomprehending  curi- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  255 

ous  eye  deciphered :  "  white  vision "  and 
"Greece" — while  Monica,  her  heart  uncon- 
scious and  free,  rode  away  in  the  night,  exulted 
in  the  magnificent  movement,  felt  intensely 
the  joy  of  mere  living,  and  listened  to  the 
happy  rhythm  of  the  light  swift  hoofs. 


256  The  Garden  of  Eden 


X 


AUREL  VON  ARENBERG  was  not  a  model  host. 
He  was  apt  to  have  at  his  own  table  the  man- 
ner of  a  polite  but  rather  indifferent  stranger. 
Very  correct  and  elegant,  but  later  than  any 
of  his  guests  would  have  dared  to  appear,  he 
would  stroll  into  his  drawing-room  with  an  air 
of  bland  irresponsibility  as  to  the  condition  of 
the  fish.  At  such  moments  some  people,  but 
not  his  wife,  admired  his  angelic  detachment. 

Dinners  occurred  with  relentless  frequency 
at  his  house.  This  fact  may  partially  excuse 
his  obliviousness.  Living  among  the  deeper 
shadows  of  life,  contending  day  in,  day  out,  be- 
yond his  strength,  beyond  any  man's  strength, 
with  the  misery  of  aching  bodies  and  helpless 
souls,  it  seemed  to  him  a  quite  superfluous 
rite,  not  that  Arco  and  Lobanow  and  Bare- 
tinsky  and  other  men  with  nothing  to  do 
should  be  continually  dining  at  his  house,  but 
that  he  must  dine  there  with  them.  He  was  a 
most  mild  judge  of  his  fellow-creatures,  and 
condemned  their  idleness  no  more  than  their 
rheumatism  or  any  other  imperfection  of  blood 


The  Garden  of  Eden  257 

and  breeding.  He  liked  these  men  fairly  well, 
and  homoeopathic  doses  of  their  society  he 
found  not  unpalatable.  But  he  had  long  since 
renounced  the  sort  of  life  they  led,  and  his 
earnestness  would  not  amalgamate  with  their 
utter  aimlessness,  which,  however,  seemed  to 
Melanie  the  one  life  worth  leading.  In  the 
incessant  and  strong  struggle,  now  tacit,  now 
open,  between  husband  and  wife,  she  pulling 
toward,  he  resisting  society,  often  he  yielded 
against  his  better  judgment,  from  a  desire  to 
have  peace  at  any  cost,  and  because  he  recog- 
nized sadly,  helplessly,  with  self-reproach,  that 
this  woman  at  his  side,  yet  so  far  from  him, 
was  no  happier,  no  more  satisfied  than  he. 
Less,  indeed,  for  he  loved  his  profession. 

There  was  a  distinct  advantage  he  found 
in  dining  at  home.  It  took  far  less  time  than 
when  Melanie  dragged  him  to  Arco's  or  Ester- 
hazy's,  or  to  a  rout  or  something  crowded  and 
philanthropic,  where  a  fashionable  tenor  sang, 
or  to  charity-bazaars  or  to  aristocratic  vaude- 
villes for  the  inundated  and  starving.  So 
when  he  saw  no  escape,  he  flung  himself  duti- 
fully into  evening  dress  and  rarely  obtruded 
his  thoughts  upon  his  neighbors.  One  can  get 
along  very  comfortably  in  society,  no  man 
knew  better  than  he,  without  thoughts,  without 
'7 


258  The  Garden  of  Eden 

attention,  without  direct  response.  He  always 
slipped  out  unobserved  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
the  women  looked  about  restlessly. 

To-night  he  was  wondering  how  early  he 
could  respectably  get  off.  He  must  see  a 
woman  at  the  hospital  before  he  slept.  It  had 
been  a  bad  operation  with  unforeseen  compli- 
cations. He  felt  anxious.  His  part  had  gone 
well,  but  she  was  anaemic,  had  a  weak  heart, 
and  little  power  of  resistance.  A  sunny  little 
woman  nevertheless,  with  three  children  and  a 
husband  who  adored  her,  —  a  big  kind  fellow, 
who  shook  like  a  reed  when  he  left,  but  she 
had  smiled.  It  seemed  to  Arenberg  he  must 
save  her,  must  sustain  that  feeble,  flickering 
flame.  Some  others  too  he  ought  to  see  with- 
out fail  —  the  little  Helm  boys  with  diphtheria. 
Besides,  he  ought  to  write  all  night  —  several 
nights,  if  he  hoped  to  clear  away  that  pile  of 
neglected  work  on  his  desk. 

"How  do  you  like  Signorina  Bartoletti?" 
asked  Madame  von  Baretinsky  at  his  right. 
"  She  dances  well,  one  must  admit,  but  it  is  a 
trifle  gaunt,  don't  you  think?  It  is  difficult 
nowadays  to  find  all  virtues  united  in  one 
danseuse:  grace,  shape,  fire,  and  school.  Vir- 
tues, did  I  say?  Virtue  is  the  last  thing  we 
exact  of  her." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  259 

"  Why  should  she  not  be  as  virtuous  as 
anybody  else?  "  remarked  Arenberg,  mild  and 
absent. 

Presently  he  began  to  listen  with  attention : 
the  woman  with  whom  he  instinctively,  con- 
scientiously, and  systematically  disagreed,  the 
one  woman  on  earth  to  whom  he  had  ever 
been  forced  to  speak  with  a  certain  brutality, 
the  woman  who  was  in  divers  ways  his  evil 
genius,  his  sister-in-law  Orla,  was  haranguing 
the  company. 

"  I  know  it  to  be  a  positive  fact,"  she  said, 
"  the  Randolph  lured  him  on  in  every  conceiv- 
able way." 

Her  voice  was  hard  and  sprightly,  her  eyes 
sparkled  like  jet  beads.  She  was  a  pretty 
woman,  small,  thin,  sharp,  and  despotic,  with 
a  wiry  vivacity  of  manner,  a  temper  which  she 
scorned  to  control,  no  children,  a  docile  hus- 
band, unsatisfied  literary  and  insatiable  social 
ambition,  and  a  volatile  following  of  fops. 

"  The  ineffable  insolence  of  womankind," 
thought  Arenberg,  contemplating  her  mildly. 
"How  dare  she  say  the  Randolph?" 

"  As  she  is  an  American,"  continued  Frau 
Selbitz,  "  and  introduced  at  your  house, 
Countess  —  " 

"  Oh,  very  well  introduced,  I  assure  you," 


160  The  Garden  of  Eden 

returned  the  Countess  von  Arco.  "  Her 
people  are  of  the  best.  But "  —  with  a  laugh 
— "  pray  don't  hesitate  on  my  account.  I 
cannot  be  held  responsible  for  all  the  indis- 
cretions of  my  compatriots  over  here.  It  is  a 
very  deplorable  affair,  I  believe.  Everybody 
was  talking  about  it  coming  out  of  church 
this  morning." 

Madame  von  Baretinsky  wondered  why 
Arenberg  was  softly  laughing. 

"  It  is  scandalous,"  exclaimed  Me"lanie.  "  I 
hardly  see  how  she  can  show  her  face  here 
after  this." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Baron  Lobanow  with 
a  smile.  "  Nothing  poses  a  woman  like  a 
suicide  or  a  duel.  There  is  but  one  reason 
why  a  woman  should  not  show  her  face  — 
ugliness  —  which  is  not  Miss  Randolph's 
crime." 

"  May  I  ask  what  is  Miss  Randolph's  crime?  " 
said  Arenberg.  "  I  should  not  take  her  for  a 
very  dangerous  malefactor." 

"  It  seems  a  man,  that  is  to  say  a  professor, 
has  blown  his  brains  out  for  her  sweet  sake," 
said  Baron  Baretinsky,  twirling  his  long  yellow 
moustaches.  "  For  my  part,  with  apologies 
to  the  company,  I  cannot  believe  that  the 
world  will  miss  him.  There  are  so  many  pro- 


The  Garden  or  Eden  261 

fessors,  and  one  does  not  count  them,  eh? 
One  more  or  less  is  no  great  matter  ? " 

"  Sascha !  "  indulgently  exclaimed  his  wife, 
ten  years  older  than  he  and  patient  as  a 
mother. 

"  I  heard  he  took  poison,"  said  the  Countess 
Alexa  von  Gerold. 

"  An  overdose  of  chloral,  I  was  told,"  Lo- 
banow  remarked. 

"  No,  no,  he  shot  himself  with  a  revolver," 
declared  Orla  von  Selbitz,  with  the  authority 
of  an  eye-witness.  "  It  made  a  terrible  report 
which  roused  the  house.  He  could  only  gasp 
a  few  words,  her  name,  and  then  he  died  in 
the  arms  of  the  landlord.  She  went  out  there 
to  meet  him,  it  seems,  and  they  had  an  excit- 
ing scene,  in  which  he  upbraided  her  for  her 
heartlessness  and  told  her  she  had  ruined  his 
existence,  and  he  should  bear  his  misery  no 
longer." 

Again  Arenberg  laughed  softly,  so  softly 
that  no  one  noticed. 

"  Horrible  !  "  exclaimed  Melanie.  "  To  first 
destroy  a  man's  happiness  and  then  his  life !  " 

"  Oh,  she !  She  probably  does  not  care  at 
all.  I  never  liked  her  appearance,"  Orla  re- 
turned autocratically. 

"  I  like  her  appearance  uncommonly  well," 


262  The  Garden  of  Eden 

said  Lobanow,  "  and  if  I  may  venture  to  be  so 
bold,  it  seems  to  me  the  ladies  go  a  little  too 
fast." 

"  That  they  do !  "  laughed  Baretinsky. 
"  They  always  do." 

"  In  Petersburg  and  in  Paris  such  things 
often  happen,"  remarked  Madame  von  Bare- 
tinsky philosophically.  Nothing  discomposed 
her  or  interested  her  much  if  only  her  Sascha 
were  well  and  amused,  and  for  the  charac- 
ter of  his  amusements  she  had  boundless 
indulgence. 

Arenberg  turned  from  time  to  time  a  quiet, 
attentive  face  upon  each  speaker,  meanwhile 
scientifically  dissecting  a  bird,  and  drawing 
his  own  conclusions. 

"  This  time,"  he  thought,  "  it  seems  they 
have  really  immolated  Iphigenia.  This  time 
Artemis  has  not  interposed.  It  is  a  pity." 

Baretinsky  chuckled. 

"  It  is  odd,  but  always  so.  This  thing  hap- 
pened yesterday,  out  of  town.  In  point  of 
fact,  we  don't  know  what  happened.  We 
know  nothing  about  it.  But  every  man  of  us 
is  on  the  woman's  side ;  every  woman  on  the 
man's." 

"  That  is  quite  right.  That  preserves  the 
balance  of  power,"  Lobanow  suggested. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  263 

Melanie  von  Arenberg  flashed  a  mute  appeal 
at  Count  Arco  under  her  dark  lashes. 

"  I  must  confess  I  stand  with  the  ladies,"  he 
hastened  to  say,  with  his  weakly  amiable 
smile. 

"  Of  course  you  do,"  bluntly  returned  the 
countess.  "  I  must  say  I  find  it  shocking." 

"  But,  Baron,  I  am  not  against  Miss  Ran- 
dolph," the  Countess  von  Gerold  said  to 
Baretinsky.  "  I  think  she  must  feel  terribly 
distressed,  and  I  am  very  sorry  for  her." 

"  Nor  am  I  against  her,"  Madame  von 
Baretinsky  remarked  negligently.  "  Coquetry 
is  not  the  worst  thing  in  the  world.  Some- 
times it  is  even  amusing."  She  spoke  as  one 
who  regarded  it  from  the  proscenium  loges 
of  life  and  through  a  glass,  somewhat  as  she 
watched  the  caperings  of  Signorina  Bartoletti. 

"  Now  I  think  we  have  every  reason  to  be 
grateful  to  her,"  Baretinsky  declared.  "  In 
this  dull  place  a  sensation  is  doubly  welcome. 
You  know  Heinrich  Heine  said  it  would  be 
very  difficult  to  be  immoral  here." 

"  I  think  Heine  was  mistaken,"  Lobanow 
returned  dryly. 

"  Well,  you  ought  to  know,"  Baretinsky  re- 
torted low. 

"Why    do    you    suppose    she    came    over 


264  The  Garden  of  Eden 

here?"  Me"lanie  began  suddenly.  "I  always 
think  there  must  be  some  reason  why  they 
cannot  live  comfortably  at  home.  Perhaps  if 
we  knew  all —  Of  course  we  know  why  such 
as  you  came,"  turning  to  Countess  Arco  defer- 
entially, at  which  Baretinsky  and  Lobanow 
exchanged  an  imperceptible  smile  with  the 
eyes.  For  the  Countess  Arco  had  come  over 
to  buy  a  count,  and  a  count  she  had  bought. 

"Why,  the  town  is  full  of  foreign  girls 
studying  every  imaginable  thing,"  protested 
Lobanow.  "  And  why  should  they  not?  " 

"  No  one  is  as  conspicuous  as  she,"  Orla 
von  Selbitz  flung  out  witheringly. 

Thus,  under  softly  shaded  lights,  amid  the 
shining  of  silver  and  glass,  the  glow  of  wine  and 
bloom  of  flowers,  women  in  charming  toilettes, 
and  men  in  genial  evening  mood,  lightly  dis- 
cussed a  tragic  event  of  which,  as  Baretinsky 
suggested,  they  knew  rather  less  than  noth- 
ing. 

Arenberg  crumbled  his  bread  absently  with 
his  slight  and  nervous  hand,  and  with  what 
Countess  Alexa  called  that  most  seraphic  air, 
which  looked  odd  above  a  white  cravat  and 
much  shirt  front. 

Finally  he  glanced  round  the  table  and 
said: 


The  Garden  of  Eden  265 

"  No  doubt  I  am  dull,  but  I  fail  to  perceive 
the  slightest  sense  or  connection  in  all  these 
conflicting  rumors,  or  how  a  shadow  of  re- 
proach can  touch  the  lady.  Who  was  the 
man?" 

"  Steiner,  Professor  Steiner,"  his  brother-in- 
law  informed  him. 

"  Ah  !  "  and  over  Von  Arenberg's  quiet  face 
passed  a  quick  gleam,  instantly  followed  by  a 
shade  of  reserve  and  a  little  defensive  droop 
of  the  eyelids. 

"  And  her  crime,"  laughed  Baretinsky,  "  her 
black  and  awful  crime  is,  he  was  in  love  with 
her." 

All  the  men  smiled  broadly,  even  Count 
Arco. 

"  But  you  are  quite  unprincipled  to  defend 
her !  "  Melanie  broke  out. 

"  Giesl !  "  Countess  Arco  warned  her  erring 
spouse. 

"  If  you  would  really  like  to  know  the  truth," 
Orla  von  Selbitz  now  announced  with  a  kind 
of  prickly  heat,  "  perhaps  I  can  enlighten  you, 
Aurel.  You  men  are  very  tolerant  or  lax  — 
of  course  we  know  that.  Still  I  suppose  you 
have  some  conscience." 

"  Do  not  doubt  us !  "  Baretinsky  pleaded 
mincingly. 


266  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  We  have  hearts,"  urged  Lobanow,  "  great 
hearts." 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  have  some  judgment 
still,"  she  replied  with  coquettish  provocation, 
for  these  men  she  reckoned  in  her  train.  Meet- 
ing Arenberg's  calm  gaze  contemplating  her 
attentively  as  if  she  were  a  new  species  of 
microbe,  she  stared  back  with  hard  bright 
eyes  and  continued  with  increased  zest : 

"  Perhaps  it  is  quite  innocent  to  run  after  a 
man  in  the  school  where  he  is  at  work,  and 
to  correspond  with  him  most  intimately  for 
months  —  " 

"You  saw  the  letters,  Orla?"  Arenberg  in- 
quired gently. 

"  Of  course  I  did  not,  Aurel !  Perhaps  it  is 
sweet  and  maidenly  to  receive  a  man's  visits, 
and  his  flowers  and  books,  pictures  and  other 
gifts,  to  encourage  him  to  the  top  of  his  bent, 
go  more  than  half  way  to  meet  him,  walk  with 
him,  ride  with  him  in  the  woods  —  " 

"  You  met  them  on  these  pleasant  excur- 
sions, Orla?"  Arenberg  asked  most  sweetly. 

"  What  nonsense,  Aurel !  But  I  know  for 
a  positive  fact  that  she  has  been  riding  with 
him  and  writing  to  him  and  playing  cruelly 
with  him.  Riding  in  the  woods ! "  she  re- 
peated, with  defiant  emphasis. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  267 

"  Ah,"  rejoined  Arenberg,  placidly.  "  In 
the  woods." 

"  Well,  now  he  has  made  away  with  himself. 
Is  that  not  proof  enough  for  you?"  she  de- 
manded triumphantly. 

"  Proof  of  something.  I  don't  quite  know 
of  what,  although  I  have  my  suspicions. 
Countess  Alexa !  have  you  mastered  your 
wheel?  Do  you  feel  quite  happy  on  it?  I 
think  most  people  look  uncommonly  miser- 
able learning  it.  Why  is  that?  Is  it  so  very 
difficult?  " 

As  they  had  their  coffee  and  cigarettes  in 
the  drawing-room,  Arenberg  seemed  to  be 
there,  well  disposed,  moving  about  among 
his  guests,  chatting  with  the  men,  saying 
something  kind  to  Count  Arco  and  to  the 
Russian,  and  to  Countess  Alexa,  who  liked  him 
much ;  but  as  she  turned  to  look  for  him,  he 
was  gone. 

He  found  the  little  woman  at  the  hospital 
in  a  sinking  condition,  and  worked  over  her 
until  she  revived  somewhat.  He  looked  at  a 
few  other  serious  cases,  walked  with  young 
Flemming  and  Sister  Seraphina  in  her  snowy 
broad-winged  cap  down  the  dim  ward,  past 
restless  sleepers  and  weary  wakeful  eyes 
which,  seeing  him  unexpectedly,  sought  his 


268  The  Garden  of  Eden 

in  pleading.  It  was  only  a  slight  man  in  even- 
ing dress  who  spoke  here  and  there  a  low 
word,  gave  a  grasp  of  the  hand,  a  thought- 
ful, friendly  look,  a  smile,  or  bent  suddenly 
to  search  a  sleeper's  face,  called  for  more 
light  and  stooped  and  looked  again  with 
sharp  scrutiny.  But  to  many  his  mere  pres- 
ence brought  brief  healing  and  hush,  as  if  an 
angel  were  passing  through  the  ward,  and 
some  poor  souls,  comforted,  smiled  and  slept 
a  little. 

Very  late  that  night  Arenberg  went  slowly 
through  a  street  which  was  far  out  of  his 
course,  looked  up  at  some  brightly-lighted 
windows  and  smiled  ironically  at  the  impulse 
which  had  brought  him  there  and  still  was 
urging  him  to  go  in. 

"  She  would  probably  take  me  for  the  exe- 
cutioner in  person  if  I  should  appear  at  this 
hour.  Miss  Randolph  may  not  even  know. 
And  I?  I  know  nothing.  Trust  Orla  to 
paint  the  devil  himself  blacker  than  black. 
But  it  looks  to  me  like  ugly  business. 
Steiner's  brother  in  an  asylum  for  years 
—  Steiner  himself,  I  suspect,  alcoholic.  I 
must  ask  Dr.  Frege.  I  suppose  I  am  hardly 
called  upon  to  play  Ritter  Toggenburg,  or 
storm  her  castle  to-night.  But  I  should  like 


The  Garden  of  Eden  269 

to  talk  with  her,  to  help  her  if  I  could. 
Perhaps  later.  She  will  be  very  uncomfort- 
able, I  fear.  Vivisection  hurts,  and  we  are 
apt  to  do  it  thoroughly  here,  particularly 
when  we  get  hold  of  a  foreigner."  With  a 
benevolent  glance  at  the  windows,  he  went  on. 

The  tale  of  the  suicide  spread  like  a 
conflagration,  assumed  myriad  shapes  and 
enormous  dimensions.  It  possessed  all  the 
conditions  essential  to  a  deep-rooted  and  far- 
reaching  scandal  destined  to  live  and  bear 
fruit.  There  was  a  certain  lull  in  topics  of 
interest  just  at  this  time:  the  court  was  con- 
ducting itself  reasonably  well,  or  at  all  events 
with  wise  precaution;  there  was  nothing 
especially  exciting  in  politics ;  no  little 
schoolgirl  had  of  late  become  infatuated 
with  an  actor;  no  scion  of  a  noble  house 
had  married  a  ballet  girl ;  no  insults  had  been 
interchanged  in  Parliament;  the  antics  of  no 
burgomaster  and  life-long  incumbent  were 
monopolizing  helpless  jurists  and  an  exas- 
perated public;  no  banker  had  fled  from 
justice;  no  officer  had  cheated  at  cards;  no 
anarchist  had  murdered  a  prince;  the  coast 
was  clear  for  Monica. 

Doubtless  at  moments  they  exaggerated  the 
importance  of  the  scandal.  What  the  world 


270  The  Garden  of  Eden 

does  not  know  is  quite  as  surprising  as  what 
it  knows.  We  are  all  of  far  less  significance 
than  we  imagine,  and  there  is  always  a  next- 
door  neighbor  who  never  heard  of  the  ill 
conduct  of  our  son  or  that  our  Aunt  Maria, 
upon  whom  we  reckoned,  has  basely  left  her 
money  to  our  distant  cousins.  Still  it  is  fair 
to  state  that  this  was  a  scandal  of  forty  horse- 
power. 

It  grew  and  grew.  It  was  not  small  on  the 
Sunday,  but  on  the  Monday  its  own  mother 
would  not  have  recognized  it.  In  that  town 
of  three  or  four  hundred  thousand  inhabitants 
comparatively  few  persons  knew  Professor 
Steiner  or  Monica  Randolph.  But  he  was  a 
fellow-townsman,  a  member  of  the  learned 
professions,  had  relatives  in  high  military 
and  cabinet  circles,  and  a  house  of  his  own 
in  Park  Street.  Thus  the  thrifty  enumerated 
his  merits.  He  had  been  led  on,  cajoled  by 
infamous  wiles,  betrayed,  and  sacrificed;  had 
suffered  martyrdoms;  was  the  victim  of  a 
generous  and  romantic  passion,  until,  dis- 
covering the  worthlessness  of  its  object,  his 
great  heart  broke.  Thus,  the  sentimentalists. 
In  highways  and  byways  the  matter  was  greed- 
ily discussed.  Everybody  knew  everything  for 
a  positive  fact.  How,  no  one  inquired. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  271 

Professor  Steiner  was  promptly  canonized 
in  public  sentiment.  A  Siegfried,  a  Baldur,  a 
Marquis  von  Posa,  he  floated  before  the  in- 
flamed imagination  of  the  foolish.  No  one 
demanded  the  truth  either  of  the  house  of 
mourning  or  of  Monica  Randolph.  But  pub- 
lic sympathy  was  exclusively  with  the  house 
of  mourning,  which,  discreet,  conventional, 
flanked  by  the  Cabinet  and  the  Army,  held 
its  peace  with  dignity,  and  told  no  tales.  In 
cigar-shops,  and  barber-shops,  and  sausage- 
shops,  in  cafes,  in  beer-halls  and  clubs,  at  din- 
ners, theatres,  and  balls,  in  court  circles  and  on 
the  market,  Monica  was  grilled,  broiled,  and 
roasted.  She  was  an  American  —  and  Ameri- 
cans were  prone  to  evil  as  the  sparks  fly  up- 
ward. How  did  she  look?  On  this  point 
reports  differed.  She  was  a  sort  of  Helen  of 
Troy.  She  was  ugly  beyond  compare,  but 
practised  black  arts  that  enchanted  men.  And 
she  wrote  books.  Ah!  Oh!  Oh!  Ah! 
According  to  Balzac,  a  woman's  reputation 
for  intellect  rouses,  even  more  than  reputed 
beauty,  the  antagonism  and  mistrust  of  her 
own  sex. 

All  the  women  turned  their  thumbs  down : 
tender-hearted  women  who  would  not  hurt  a 
fly,  but  whose  lives  had  been  too  comfortably 


272  The  Garden  of  Eden 

narrow,  uneventful,  and  guarded  from  the  first 
for  them  to  be  aught  but  conservative  among 
themselves,  timid,  suspicious  toward  all  strange 
things ;  canny  mothers  who  decked  out  their 
daughters  bravely  and  took  them  where  they 
would  be  seen  of  men ;  prim  little  maids 
trained  to  exist  for  forms  and  conventions 
until  they  really  believed  that  birth  was  in- 
vented for  the  sake  of  fine  christenings  and 
engagements  for  the  ring  and  the  congratula- 
tions, and  death  for  imposing  funeral  proces- 
sions ;  spinsters  who  secretly  vowed  never  to 
forgive  Monica  their  vicarious  loss  of  that 
house  in  Park  Street ;  elderly  young  women 
of  the  aristocracy  who,  at  the  tender  age  of 
thirty-three,  being  still  unmarried,  must  simu- 
late the  soft  helplessness  of  the  blind  kitten, 
and  its  ignorance  of  nature's  laws ;  gay  women, 
with  stains  upon  the  conscience,  or  haply  des- 
titute of  that  irksome  monitor;  women  who 
had  divorced  themselves  from  husbands  and 
abandoned  children,  solely  to  purchase  with 
the  blessing  of  the  Church  a  coronet;  women 
living  in  marriage  without  love,  and  women 
living  in  love  without  marriage  —  all  of  one 
accord,  whatever  their  kind  or  degree,  prayed : 
God,  I  thank  thee  that  I  am  not  as  this 
publican. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  273 

Meanwhile,  as  not  infrequently  happens, 
the  person  chiefly  concerned  did  not  suspect 
her  ghastly  notoriety,  but  ate  and  drank  and 
slept  and  worked  with  cheerful  unconscious- 
ness of  her  ghoul  and  vampire  attributes. 

For  nearly  a  week  Professor  Steiner's  bom- 
bardment had  ceased  which  was  an  unspeak- 
able relief.  "  At  last  he  sees  how  wrong  it 
was,"  she  hoped,  and  recovered  the  elasticity 
which  had  often  failed  under  the  long  and 
grievous  dispensation  of  the  letters. 

The  Frau  Professor  watched  her  anxiously, 
and  provided  sauces  and  salads  of  surpassing 
quality  and  the  best  fruit  procurable,  and  when 
Monica  asked  for  the  evening  paper,  it  had 
accidentally  been  destroyed  —  a  loss  she  was 
able  to  bear  with  equanimity.  Elizabeth 
seemed  to  be  in  a  state  of  poorly  suppressed 
frenzy  in  which  her  mildest  wish  was  that  an 
earthquake  would  swallow  the  entire  popula- 
tion, but  her  fits  of  startling  eloquence  were 
too  frequent  to  rouse  comment.  Robert  did 
not  once  show  himself.  Eleanor  stole  in  and 
out,  fine  and  soft  as  a  Tanagra  statuette,  and 
asked  with  gentle  but  senseless  reiterations 
if  there  were  nothing  she  could  do  on  The 
Nosegay. 

But  no  one  dared  to  break  the  news  to  Mo- 
18 


274  The  Garden  of  Eden 

nica,  and  Mr.  Loring,  who  might  have  been 
spokesman  ex  officio,  had  the  influenza. 
The  three  decided  however  that  they  could 
not  longer  postpone  the  evil  moment,  since 
she  might  hear  the  facts  roughly  at  any  time. 

A  week  after  that  ride  to  the  Rosenhof 
Monica  found  Elizabeth  and  Eleanor  awaiting 
her  return  in  her  room. 

"Ah,"  she  said  brightly,  "you  here? 
That  is  good.  I  have  made  a  great  discovery 
which  I  think  I  must  write  to  The  Panyphone. 
Wait  an  instant."  She  took  off  her  jacket 
and  hat  and  dived  for  some  heavy  books  of 
photographs  on  her  lower  shelves. 

She  was  fresh  from  fast  walking  in  the  cool 
weather,  and  looked  not  a  little  ironical. 

"  You  know,  Elizabeth,  how  often  we  have 
wondered  why  the  people,  the  plebs,  stare  so 
at  foreigners  here,  even  when  we  buy  our 
gowns  at  their  shops.  You  remember,  Eliza- 
beth? "  she  repeated,  for  Elizabeth  was  silent. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  remember." 

"  Now  I  should  be  sorry  to  flatter  myself, 
but  I  have  had  the  impression  this  afternoon 
that  every  man,  woman,  and  child  I  met  turned 
and  stared  at  me.  You  know  how  the  women 
sometimes  stop  short,  and  one  hears  the  little 
shuffle  of  their  feet  on  the  pavement,  and  sees 


The  Garden  of  Eden  275 

with  the  back  of  one's  head  their  devouring 
look  of  disapproval."  She  laughed,  and,  lean- 
ing over  her  desk,  turned  the  large  leaves  of 
her  photograph  books. 

"  And  it  was  not  so  in  Italy,  or  in  Vienna  — 
now  was  it?  It  is  not  so  in  Paris  or  in  London. 
They  are  large  towns,  of  course,  and  this  is  a 
little  place.  But  I  thought  to-day  there  must 
be  a  reason  beyond  that  and  beyond  the  great 
clannishness  and  conservatism  of  the  people 
here.  And  I  think  I  Ve  found  it,  and  it  be- 
longs to  the  Woman  Question,  Eleanor,"  she 
announced,  still  with  the  little  ironical  smile  on 
her  lips  and  mischief  in  her  eyes. 
'  "Yes,  Monica.  The  Woman  Question." 

"  It  is  the  way  we  walk,  and  what  they  find 
unsympathetic  is  our  backbones.  In  our  back- 
bones is  a  certain  emancipation  ;  for  you  see 
it  is  simply  impossible  for  women  who  ride  and 
swim  and  row  and  cycle,  to  promenade  curva- 
ture of  the  spine.  Do  you  remember,  Eliza- 
beth, that  the  handsome  Ferdinand  asked  us 
once  why  English  women,  meaning  Americans 
also,  all  looked  as  if  they  had  swallowed  a 
ramrod?  Now  if  you  will  glance  at  this  St. 
Barbara  and  St.  Elizabeth  of  Holbein.  Lovely 
things  !  Here  is  St.  Ursula  from  the  Cathedral 
pf  Cologne ;  and  this  Cranach ;  and  this  Annun- 


276  The  Garden  of  Eden 

ciation  of  Van  Eyck;  and  this  Maximilian  and 
his  Wife ;  here  is  a  Kunigunde  —  I  don't  know 
by  whom;  and  this  Memling.  I  can  find 
scores  of  them,  but  these  are  the  ones  that 
occur  to  me  —  " 

"  You  see  they  all  have  deprecating  backs. 
They  are  apologizing  for  something.  I  pre- 
sume for  being  women.  It  is  the  mediaeval 
attitude :  the  head  drooping  meekly  forward, 
the  chest  retreating  in  hollow  modesty,  the 
stomach  consequently  a  trifle  protruded  — 
which  is  not  pretty  —  the  hands  folded  in  docil- 
ity, and  the  backbone,  the  backbone,  my  dears, 
conforming  submissively  to  all  these  signs  of 
bondage  —  a  "  slimsy  "  article,  as  they  say  in 
shops." 

She  took  down  a  couple  of  books  on  art, 
searched  still  for  examples,  was  obviously  pre- 
paring her  article  aloud,  for  she  jotted  down 
some  memoranda. 

"  Now  the  German  women  being  most  ex- 
ceedingly conservative,  a  wee  bit  Chinese, 
have  retained  more  or  less  the  submissive  med- 
iaeval backbone,  while  we  for  some  centuries 
have  been  gradually  straightening  and  strength- 
ening ours.  I  do  not  say,  mind  you,  the  weak 
pose  prevails  here  exclusively.  But  it  is  the 
radical  difference  between  us,  of  course ;  many 


The  Garden  of  Eden  277 

things  follow  in  its  wake.  Continued  into  ma- 
turity, it  makes  for  clumsiness.  Submission? 
There  are  various  kinds.  A  woman  may  have 
a  submissive  back,  and  a  submissive  intellect, 
and  submissive  traditions,  and  a  very  unsub- 
missive temper.  Or,  like  you,  Eleanor,  she 
may  have  an  unsubmissive  intellect  and  a 
marvellously  docile  spirit.  There 's  nothing  at 
all  submissive  about  you,  Elizabeth,  but  you 
are  very  dear  all  the  same,  and  your  backbone 
is  a  beauty. 

"  Now  I  find  the  young  girls  here  love!y,  and 
some  of  the  older  women  very  handsome,  but 
they  do  lack  grace  of  movement,  and  I  attri- 
bute it  to  the  conservation  of  the  mediaeval 
backbone.  That  is  my  great  discovery.  I  'm 
going  to  work  it  up  with  all  its  psychic  con- 
comitants. I  think  it  will  be  too  good  for  The 
Panyphone.  I  will  try  a  magazine.  You  can  do 
the  learned  part  for  me,  Eleanor.  Anthropos 
and  all  that.  But  why  do  you  not  look  at  the 
pictures?  " 

She  turned  toward  them  questioningly, 
smilingly,  and  waited.  They  had  risen  and 
regarded  her  with  faces  which  she  did  not 
understand.  The  Frau  Professor,  hovering  in 
the  background,  wiped  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,   Monica,"   exclaimed   Elizabeth   sav- 


The  Garden  of  Eden 

agely,  "  if  I  could  put  my  arms  round  you 
and  take  you  off  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  !  " 

Again  the  silence  and  suspense. 

The  animation  faded  from  Monica's  face. 
A  great  terror  seized  her.  She  took  one  step 
forward  and  grasped  a  high-backed  chair. 
White  and  hardly  audible,  she  asked : 

"  Is  my  mother  dead  ?  " 

"  Not  that,  you  darling ! "  replied  Eleanor, 
with  a  sob. 

Monica's  tense  hands  relaxed,  she  drew  a 
deep  breath,  dropped  into  the  chair,  and  after 
an  instant  said  quietly : 

"  Then  I  can  bear  it.     What  is  it?" 

They  told  her.  First  one,  then  another 
spoke  in  shrinking,  broken  words.  Each 
thought  the  other  was  making  it  too  bad,  but 
interrupting  to  rectify,  to  soften,  made  it  worse. 
"  Don't  tell  me  any  more,"  said  Monica  once  or 
twice,  then  put  straight  questions  and  had  no 
mercy  on  herself,  until  she  knew  all,  until  she 
saw  both  pictures  clearly,  the  true  one  ghastly, 
fateful,  but  pleading  piteously  for  compassion, 
the  false  one  ghastlier  still  because  colored 
by  cruelty,  calumny,  and  lies. 

White,  motionless,  speechless,  with  closed 
eyes,  she  sat  for  a  while  struggling  to  compre- 
hend, possessed  by  horror  as  if  guilty  of  a 


The  Garden  of  Eden  279 

crime.  Suddenly  she  started  up  and  quickly 
put  on  her  jacket  and  hat.  Elizabeth  and 
Eleanor  watched  her  silently,  but  the  Frau 
Professor  who  awaited  tears,  tea,  and  bed,  said 
with  some  alarm: 

"  You  are  not  going  out,  dear  child?  " 

"  I  cannot  breathe  here,"  returned  Monica. 

"You  do  not  want  me?"  asked  Elizabeth. 

Monica  shook  her  head. 

For  this  she  had  left  Keith,  for  this !  she 
thought,  looking  down  from  a  dusky  height 
upon  the  lights  of  the  town  stretching  away  in 
the  long  valley.  Joy  and  love  and  home  she 
had  foregone  because  her  dear  ones,  not  she, 
trembled  lest  a  breath  of  the  world's  censure 
should  reach  her.  Alone  she  had  come  forth, 
for  this !  Her  whole  being  was  in  uproar. 
She  could  scarce  follow  any  thought. 

Yet  painfully  she  forced  herself  to  trace 
every  step  of  her  acquaintanceship  with 
Steiner.  Sternly  she  examined  herself,  seek- 
ing her  fault,  if  fault  there  were.  "  I  may 
have  blundered,"  she  said,  "  but  before  God 
I  am  innocent.  I  am  the  sacrifice.  I  am 
the  victim.  No  one  else.  Not  even  he." 
Yet  remembering  that  distraught  brain,  its 
agony  and  despair,  the  sickening  death  of 
the  man  —  and  that  dire  vision  never  left  her 


280  The  Garden  of  Eden 

an  instant  —  his  last  pathetic  effort  to  write 
to  her,  his  last  mad  thought,  for  she  alone 
knew  the  interpretation  of  the  scrawl  found 
near  his  bleeding  body,  her  heart  grew  faint, 
she  leaned  upon  the  railing  for  support,  and 
a  pity  for  him  was  born  in  that  hour,  a  pity  so 
tender  and  so  vast,  it  was  strangely  akin  to  the 
affection  she  could  not  grant  him  living. 

She  stood  alone  under  the  tranquil  stars. 
No  one  passed  but  weary  laborers  and  other 
simple,  quiet  folk.  Far  down  the  valley  shone 
the  myriad  lights  of  the  city. 

"But  you,  pretty  town  among  your  hills, 
you  owe  me  reparation,"  her  spirit  cried  in 
grief  and  passionate  resentment.  "  You  have 
been  base  and  cruel  to  me.  You  have  con- 
demned me  without  trial.  Even  savages  prac- 
tise some  crude  form  of  justice,  but  you,  with 
all  your  learning,  your  oratorical  lofty  talk  of 
German  truth  and  German  faith  and  honor, 
and  ideals,  what  have  you  done  to  me  ?  Your 
forefathers  were  more  benevolent  and  pro- 
vided burning  ploughshares.  I  could  walk 
them  this  night!  Your  legends  let  heralds 
call  and  bugles  blow  and  help  be  loudly  sum- 
moned for  traduced  maids,  and  give  them  time 
to  weep  and  pray  until  their  mystic  knights 
appear  and  save  them  gloriously.  While  not 


The  Garden  of  Eden  281 

a  man  of  you  has  come  to  me  and  said  in 
fairness :  '  Tell  me,  what  is  the  truth  of  this 
matter?'  And  no  one  knows  the  truth.  Ah, 
that  is  hard ! 

"  But  I  want  no  rescuing  knight,  no  protec- 
tion, no  chivalry.  I  crave  only  justice.  Not 
because  I  am  a  woman  should  some  of  you 
have  taken  the  trouble  to  ascertain  the  facts. 
I  am  a  fellow-creature  accused  of  a  foul  crime. 
You  charge  me  with  the  cruel  death  of  this 
man,  with  a  kind  of  cold-blooded,  infamous 
murder,  and  you  have  dared  with  unanimity 
and  with  the  swift  swoop  of  the  bird  of  prey 
to  pronounce  me  —  unheard  and  undefended 
—  guilty. 

"  But  you  are  guilty.  Not  I.  Not  he.  You. 
You  trail  my  good  name  in  the  dust.  You 
wound  me  to  the  death.  But  before  the  tri- 
bunal of  eternal  justice,  I  stand  here  and  ar- 
raign you.  Charge  and  countercharge.  God 
hears."  Like  a  gleam  of  light  from  a  purer 
world  flashed  into  her  misery  the  proud 
thought : 

"  It  is  better  so.  Better  be  harmed  than 
to  harm.  Better  suffer  through  their  lies  than 
be  guilty,  if  in  the  slightest  degree,  of  the 
crimes  they  allege  against  me,  though  no 
man  suspect." 


282  The  Garden  of  Eden 

For  an  instant  her  smile  was  the  smile  of 
the  conqueror. 

Sadly  she  gazed  down  the  valley. 

"  I  was  so  fond  of  you,  you  pretty  town.  I 
was  lonely  when  I  came.  I  thought  you  kind. 
I  was  grateful  for  every  bounty  —  for  your 
music,  your  pictures,  and  your  forests.  Your 
simplest  folk  seemed  so  wholesome,  honest, 
and  good.  I  liked  you  for  your  young  chil- 
dren's sake  and  for  your  tenderness  to  them. 
I  liked  you  —  better  than  I  knew.  And  you 
have  stabbed  me  to  the  heart.  Why?  Be- 
cause a  man  I  hardly  knew  went  mad  and 
died.  Is  that  a  reason?" 

But  even  as  she  reproached  it  in  bitterness, 
she  was  unconsciously  caring  for  the  place 
with  deeper  attachment  than  before;  for  sor- 
row welds  faster  thai  joy.  She  never  ceased 
to  love  that  town,  and  the  time  came  when  she 
forgave  it.  That  was  her  revenge. 

She  was  lonely,  strangely  lonely  in  this  trag- 
edy. If  but  one  soul  knew  the  truth !  Her 
mother?  It  would  break  her  heart.  Keith? 
Ah,  no !  If  he  did  not  need  her  letters  for  his 
joy  she  would  not  burden  him  with  her  sorrow. 
Yet  he  was  generous,  he  would  be  grieved  for 
any  one  in  her  plight ;  he  would  be  tender  to 
her  if  he  were  near;  he  would  comfort  her 


The  Garden  of  Eden  283 

with  the  old  comfort;  but  she  could  not  tell 
him  this;  time  and  the  ocean  and  something 
she  did  not  comprehend  were  between  them. 
She  shivered,  and  sobbed  without  tears. 

Suddenly  an  idea,  which  for  a  brief  moment 
seemed  clever,  occurred  to  her.  She  would 
call  with  those  letters  in  her  hands  upon  the 
Cabinet  Minister  to  whom  Professor  Steiner 
had  alluded.  She  would  say: 

"  Sir,  you  are  wise  and  shrewd.  Here  are 
these  letters.  Here  am  I.  Read  them.  Cross- 
examine  me." 

But  ah,  how  futile  and  painful  to  pore  over 
the  convincing  testimony  of  those  insane  pages  ! 
And  to  what  end?  His  own  family  surely 
needed  no  proof  of  the  poor  man's  condition. 
They  knew  it  best,  had  known  it  longest,  had 
suffered  most  —  till  now. 

Why  then  did  they  not  come  to  her,  and 
speak  one  word  in  kindness?  Why  did  not 
some  gentlewoman  among  them  say,  "We  have 
heard  of  these  unjust  accusations.  We  fear 
our  poor  sufferer  caused  you  much  pain."  It 
would  be  only  human.  But  she  would  make 
no  appeal  to  them.  Nor  would  she  weakly 
complain  of  the  haunting  pertinacity  of  a  man 
now  dead  who,  whatever  misery  he  had  occa- 
sioned her,  was  himself  a  victim  of  some  mys- 


284  The  Garden  of  Eden 

terious  congenital  curse  and  had  suffered  the 
torments  of  the  damned. 

"  Poor,  poor  soul !  "  she  sighed.  "  Perhaps 
he  knows  now  I  was  not  cruel."  If  one  were 
but  sure  of  that !  She  wistfully  contemplated 
the  starry  heavens.  They  told  her  nothing. 
Those  superb  stars  may  not  be  so  tranquil  as 
they  look.  They  too  must  have  their  trag- 
edies. One  forgets  we  also  are  up  there. 
From  afar,  we  too,  look  shining  and  silvery 
and  sublime.  We  too  are  moving  on  in 
majesty  and  inscrutable  law. 

She  recalled  the  long  chain  of  trifles  that  had 
led  to  the  grief  of  this  hour.  A  fountain  played 
bravely  in  the  winter  sunlight.  Therefore  she 
had  chanced  to  remain.  Chanced?  But  was 
that  too  not  law?  the  same  law  that  pre- 
sides at  the  nebulous  birth  of  planets,  and  mar- 
shals the  evolutions  of  heavenly  hosts,  and 
ushers  in  the  spring,  and  tints  the  violet,  and 
beckons  the  leaping  tides,  and  inspires  the 
ardor  of  suns?  Could  law  guide  her  wander- 
ing feet,  yet  not  decree  the  movements  of  her 
soul?  Must  there  not  be  one  life,  one  love  in 
the  universe?  Could  law  exist  for  the  lifeless 
molecules,  yet  not  for  the  soul  that  suffers? 
But  were  there  lifeless  molecules?  Was  not 
everywhere  imprisoned  soul?  And  the  soul 


The  Garden  of  Eden  285 

that  suffers  —  the  human  soul  —  that  has 
passed  beyond  the  dumb  soul  in  stones,  and 
the  soul  that  lurks  in  the  cells  of  flowers  — 
and  the  still  brother-soul  of  trees  —  shall  it 
find  no  rest?  Shall  there  be  calm  and  poise 
for  all  these,  laws  of  birth  and  growth  and 
decay,  of  attraction  and  repulsion,  laws  for  the 
mightiest  and  tiniest  movement  of  things  — 
yet  none  for  the  movement  of  events,  for 
the  march  of  our  soul  histories?  Law  for 
that  brain-disease,  but  only  chance  for  the 
man's  soul-pain  —  and  hers?  Blind  chance 
had  planned  all  the  acts  of  that  well-knit 
tragedy : 

Never !  Ah,  no !  There  was  meaning  in  the 
meanest  thing,  a  reason  —  a  purpose  then  in 
even  this  anguish.  Not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the 
ground.  Every  hair  of  your  head  is  num- 
bered. In  the  hollow  of  His  hand.  Were  not 
the  sweet  old  sayings  equally  true  in  science 
as  in  the  older  faith? 

Ah,  she  believed  in  the  pregnant  purpose 
of  the  ages.  She  believed  all  worlds  visible 
and  invisible,  and  all  humanities  were  moving 
toward  some  far-off,  divine  event;  though 
mountains  trembled  and  moons  paled,  law  and 
love  should  endure.  Sometimes,  indeed,  alone 
in  the  night,  she  had  her  flashes  of  inspiration, 


286  The  Garden  of  Eden 

divination  —  prophecy.   She  believed  no  longer 

—  she  knew  ! 

But  now,  in  her  pain,  as  her  thoughts  flitted 
like  troubled  birds  in  the  dusk  hither  and 
thither  between  earth  and  heaven,  she  wished 
she  were  great,  and  strong,  and  sure,  so  that 
the  odium  were  naught  to  her,  instead  of  caus- 
ing her  to  shrink  and  writhe;  wished  she  were 
not  all  alone  yet  fashioned  to  crave  so  sorely 
warmth  and  the  nearer  comfort,  fond  sympa- 
thy, subtle  comprehension,  the  cares  of  sweet 
breath  and  clinging  lips,  and  all  the  dear  de- 
vices of  close,  close  love. 

Oh,  the  irony !  This  horror  that  had  come 
into  her  life  was  also  love  —  caricatured,  per- 
verted, and  diseased  —  but  love  still.  For  that 
tortured  soul,  through  all  the  steady  progress 
of  pathological  symptoms,  sought  ever,  in  end- 
less, retreating  mirage,  an  unattainable  ideal 

—  and  what  is  that  but  love  ? 

Yet  why  must  this  have  come  to  her,  she 
moaned.  Why?  Was  it  the  Karma  the  Bud- 
dhists teach  ?  In  some  past  age  had  she  done 
this  man  a  hideous  wrong?  Hideous  indeed, 
or  the  expiation  were  less  merciless. 

"  It  may  well  be,"  she  sighed,  "  and  if  I  knew 
it,  I  could  bear  this  more  bravely,  for  it  would 
be  only  justice." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  287 

In  her  confused  gropings  and  stumblings  the 
perception  of  eternal  law  ruling  the  tragic 
doom  of  the  man  and  ordaining  her  suffering 
and  sacrifice  was  her  one  support.  But  as  she 
absently  noted  the  lines  of  garish  electric  lights 
intersecting  the  golden  yellow  glow  of  gas,  and, 
to  her  wonderment,  could  not  determine  the 
street  cutting  through  the  valley  like  the  flash 
of  a  sabre  —  for  thus  benevolent  nature  inter- 
poses layers  of  vapid  thoughts  in  heavily 
charged  minds,  to  prevent  too  stunning  explo- 
sions, her  pain  was  too  great,  her  sense  of 
wrong  too  deep,  her  philosophy  not  yet  large 
enough  for  her  to  pardon  the  town  that  had 
immolated  her.  Not  yet  did  she  comprehend 
that  it,  too,  had  acted  in  ignorance,  and  only 
as  it  must. 

As  she  entered  her  study,  her  three  friends 
greeted  her  with  good,  glad  smiles  of  relief. 

"  You  have  had  no  dinner,  my  child,"  began 
Frau  Erhardt,  rather  choked. 

"No,"  replied  Monica,  quietly.  "I  should 
rather  like  something  warm.  I  am  a  little 
chilly.  It  is  cool  to-night." 

The  Frau  Professor  hastened  from  the  room. 

"  Elizabeth !  "  said  Monica  significantly. 
The  two  looked  in  each  other's  eyes,  and  saw 
scenes  that  they  longed  to  efface,  and  heard 


288  The  Garden  of  Eden 

echoes  of  impatient,  audacious  jests  about 
trifles  no  longer  comic,  but  fraught  with  sad 
dignity,  errors  inevitably  expiated  and  forgiven. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  Elizabeth  answered  very 
sweetly,  for  she  knew  it  was  her  daring  tongue 
that  Monica  feared.  Never  from  that  moment 
between  these  two  was  Professor  Steiner's  name 
or  anything  connected  therewith  mentioned. 

Eleanor  required  no  warning.  She  was  all 
tact. 

Frau  Erhardt  told  Monica  mournfully  that 
night,  the  house  would  be  lonely  enough  when 
she  was  gone,  but  it  was  of  course  unquestion- 
ably best  for  her. 

"  But  I  have  not  once  thought  of  going 
away." 

"  You  have  so  often  said  you  might  go  any 
day.  You  never  were  rooted  here.  And  now, 
it  seemed  to  me,  nothing  could  possibly  keep 
you." 

"  Ah,  yes ;  but  now  I  must  stay,"  said 
Monica,  simply. 

With  Frau  Erhardt  also  she  never  discussed 
the  Steiner  episode,  and  her  manner  effectually 
repressed  all  further  disclosures.  "  He  is  dead, 
and  I  am  slaughtered.  Nothing  can  undo  the 
facts.  I  cannot  let  them  expatiate  and  weep 
over  me.  I  cannot  bear  it." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  289 

She  half  thought  she  might  like  to  discuss  it 
quietly  with  Mr.  Loring,  but  when  that  good 
man  came,  with  a  distinctly  new  distress  upon 
his  face,  and  looked  at  her  apprehensively,  un- 
certain how  to  begin,  she  with  nervous  precip- 
itation headed  him  off: 

"Dear  Mr.  Loring,  I  am  so  glad  you  are 
better.  I  want  to  talk  with  you  about  what 
they  call  the  inutility  of  the  Atonement." 

Thus  she  succeeded  practically  and  on  every 
side  in  excluding  from  her  daily  intercourse 
the  sad  theme  which  persistently  haunted  her 
thoughts.  What  she  had  to  bear,  she  bore  in 
silence.  Sometimes,  in  crowds,  she  saw  coarse 
women  stop  and  stare  and  gloat,  and  felt  them 
whisper  to  one  another  the  tale  of  her  nefari- 
ousness.  At  first  this  made  her  gasp  and 
quiver  and  set  her  heart  a-beating  fast,  but 
human  nature  is  supple  and  can  adapt  itself 
to  much.  She  knew  her  friends  would  do 
what  they  could  for  her.  But  they  were  feeble 
indeed  before  the  resolute  denseness  of  public 
sentiment.  This  was  a  case  where  good 
burghers  at  their  beer,  who  had  never  seen 
Steiner  or  her,  knew  everything  to  be,  for  a 
positive  fact.  No  god  could  have  convinced 
them  of  a  flaw  in  their  reckoning. 

Happily  for  Monica,  there  soon  ensued  — 
19 


290  The  Garden  of  Eden 

behind  closed  doors  —  a  suit  inculpating  high 
personages,  and  teeming  with  revelations  of 
so  revolting  a  nature  that  society  discreetly 
turned  its  fair  head  aside,  while  lending  greedy 
ears.  The  Social  Democrats  not  illogically 
held  jubilee,  proclaimed  brutal  truths,  and 
some  of  their  editors  were  merrily  fined ;  but 
they  were  used  to  that.  Shortly  after,  a  group 
of  noble  lieutenants  did  her  the  favor  to  dis- 
grace themselves,  and  some  took  sudden  jour- 
neys, and  some  were  commanded  to  distant 
garrisons,  and  others  were  actually  cashiered, 
but  softly — gingerly  —  with  the  consideration 
befitting  their  station  and  Suabian  solidarity 
of  sentiment,  and  with  the  lofty  hocus-pocus  of 
the  court-martial.  Society  looked  sanctimo- 
nious, as  it  whispered  this  painful  matter,  and 
felt  its  pillars  shaking.  The  wicked  Social 
Democrats  shouted  and  flung  up  their  hats,  yet 
this  too  was  a  scandal  behind  closed  doors. 

A  duel  also  befriended  her.  A  major's 
sacred  elbow  was  jostled  by  a  civilian,  in  a 
crowd.  Now,  that  is  a  thing  that  may  not  be. 
Hence  the  major  shot  the  civilian,  and  his  wife 
wept.  They  sent  the  major  for  a  while  to 
comfortable  quarters  in  a  fortress,  and  when 
he  came  back,  he  was  invited  to  sit  at  meat 
at  the  king's  table.  Society  drivelled  a  bit 


The  Garden  of  Eden  29 1 

over  the  duel,  and  more  Social  Democrats 
were  merrily  fined.  Still  the  world  said,  an 
officer  has  no  choice.  He  must  protect  his 
honor.  And  Monica  marvelled,  smiling  the 
new  smile  she  had  learned. 

"  How  fragile  is  the  thing  a  man  calls  his 
honor!  My  honor,  thank  God,  has  more 
vitality." 

Among  all  these  more  or  less  evanescent 
entertainments,  Monica's  case,  having  no  closed 
doors  or  other  privileges,  held  its  own  in  bare- 
faced notoriety.  It  gradually  crystallized  into 
the  town  traditions,  and  attained  in  time  the 
dignity  of  an  evil  classic.  When  people  dis- 
cussed her  irreverently,  as  they  dare  to  discuss 
even  you  and  me,  and  wondered  whether 
this  or  that,  or  the  other,  were  true,  somebody 
always  cried  in  triumph :  "  Well,  at  all  events, 
there  was  Steiner !  " 

While  her  wounds  were  fresh,  and  longer, 
Monica  suffered  keenly.  One  suffers  in  igno- 
rance so  much  more  than  one  need.  Cur- 
iously enough,  her  regular  work,  which  she 
still  viewed  more  or  less  ironically,  proved  an 
humble  but  unfailing  friend.  More  effectually 
than  the  voice  of  affection,  it  steadied  her  fluc- 
tuating moods,  her  inconsistent,  hot,  patient, 
rebellious,  soaring,  helpless  nature. 


29  2  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Suddenly,  out  of  the  long  silence,  and 
written  with  trembling  hand,  came  a  rare 
message  from  her  beloved  old  friend,  Judge 
Trevor  —  a  few  strong  words  of  love,  of  faith 
in  her,  an  appeal  to  her  courage  and  constancy. 

Another  unexpected  friend  deigned  to  lay  a 
cooling  hand  upon  her  brow  —  the  magnifi- 
cent old  pagan  Goethe,  who  told  her  some- 
thing to  this  effect : 

What  friends  do  with  and  for  us,  becomes  a 
part  of  ourselves,  since  it  strengthens  and  sum- 
mons our  personality.  What  enemies  undertake 
against  us,  we  do  not  assimilate,  but  expe- 
rience merely,  and  reject,  protecting  ourselves  as 
against  frost,  storm,  rain,  hail,  or  any  other  pass- 
ing discomfort. 

Nevertheless,  above  all  things  she  craved 
comprehension.  It  was  martyrdom  for  her  to 
bear  this  grief  alone.  Yet,  with  a  certain 
haughtiness  she  instinctively  repelled  the 
gentle  loquacity  of  benevolent  but  impotent 
souls.  One  day  she  remembered  Arenberg's 
thoughtful  face.  He  looked  as  if  he  under- 
stood all  things.  He  was  a  doctor,  too,  and 
she  could  show  him  the  letters,  without  wrong 
to  the  poor  wild  heart  that  wrote  them. 
Arenberg  was  mild,  profound.  She  might 
dare  to  tell  him  all,  as  to  a  priest. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  293 

She  went  as  far  as  his  threshold,  where  she 
stepped  back  to  yield  precedence  to  a  hollow- 
eyed  man,  dragging  his  legs  miserably  and 
clinging  to  his  wife. 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  go  in,"  thought  Monica, 
"  I  am  too  well  and  strong.  I  am  ashamed  to 
go  to  a  stranger,  busy  with  such  ills,  and  pro- 
claim and  thrust  upon  him  my  innocence. 
It  is  a  low  thing  to  always  want  to  be  under- 
stood. Let  my  innocence  take  care  of  itself." 


294  The  Garden  of  Eden 


XI 


"IT  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  in,  Miss 
Randolph,"  said  the  handsome  Ferdinand. 
"  I  wanted  to  call  upon  you,  but  cannot  leave 
very  well  to-day,  so  I  ventured  to  take  the 
great  liberty  and  give  you  the  trouble." 

"I  am  very  willing  to  come,"  returned 
Monica,  not  without  apprehension,  for  she 
remembered  the  last  time  they  three  sat  in 
that  private  room. 

"We  are  aching  with  curiosity,"  Elizabeth 
assured  him.  "Not  awaiting  anything  so 
cheerful  as  a  legacy,  and  being  formally  sum- 
moned by  the  Grand  Mogul,  we  have  not  lost 
a  moment." 

"  You  are  as  welcome  as  the  sunshine,  but 
it  is  Miss  Randolph  whom  —  "  he  hesitated, 
smiling. 

"  In  money  matters  she  and  I  are  one. " 

"It  is  only  money?  "  inquired  Monica,  with 
vague  anxiety. 

"Only  money,"  he  repeated,  laughing. 
"Is  that  the  way  to  talk  to  a  banker?  Yes, 
it  relates  to  money  among  other  things.  I 
presume  I  may  speak  before  Miss  McCarroll  ? " 


The  Garden  of  Eden  295 

"I  presume  you  '11  have  to,"  remarked  that 
audacious  young  lady,  leaning  back  com- 
fortably and  smiling  at  him. 

"  I  have  been  requested  to  act  as  ambas- 
sador in  what  I  regard  as  a  matter  of  much 
importance.  I  have  a  message,  a  proposal  to 
submit  to  you  from  one  of  your  compatriots, 
who  is  much  interested  in  you,  and  has 
written  —  " 

At  this  point  Monica's  grave  concentration 
relaxed. 

"  —  written  to  me  fully  and  confidentially." 

"Go  on,"  said  Elizabeth,  graciously. 
"  You  are  a  very  imposing  ambassador.  You 
don't  come  to  the  point  quite  fast  enough  to 
suit  me;  but  I  suppose  that  would  be  infra 


"  Why  should  he  write  to  you  ?  "  demanded 
Monica,  pertinently,  amused  and  puzzled  that 
a  publisher  or  an  editor  should  set  to  work  in 
this  roundabout  fashion. 

"I  will  agree  to  whatever  they  want,"  she 
reflected,  "unless  it  be  a  prize  story  handi- 
capped with  twenty-six  conditions.  It  must 
be  a  very  good  offer,  and  dear  mamma  has  a 
weakness,  if  not  for  purple,  at  least  for  fine 
linen." 

"  He  anticipated  that  question  on  your  part, 


296  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Miss  Randolph,"  replied  the  banker,  cour- 
teously. "There  is,  however,  an  explanation 
of  his  course.  He  was  here  some  years  ago. 
We  had  business  relations  together,  —  very 
agreeable  relations.  He  is  aware  that  I  have 
the  honor  of  your  acquaintance.  He  knows  I 
am  in  a  position  to  give  you  exact  informa- 
tion concerning  him  and  his  circumstances. 
In  short,  he  believed  a  little  preliminary 
conversation  between  us  would  be  more  prac- 
tical and  satisfactory  —  more  business-like, 
he  said  —  than  a  letter  to  you  from  a  total 
stranger. " 

"Where  is  this  singularly  cautious  and 
canny  person,"  asked  Monica,  "and  pray  what 
does  he  want  of  me  ?  " 

"At  the  moment  travelling  in  India,  en 
prince. " 

In  Monica's  eyes  appeared  vast  mystifica- 
tion; in  Elizabeth's  lurked  a  demon  of  mis- 
chief. 

"Miss  Randolph,"  continued  the  banker, 
rising  instinctively  to  his  full  Viking  height, 
his  voice  impressive,  his  face  duly  solemn, 
"this  gentleman  possesses  a  fortune  of  ten 
million  dollars.  I  have  the  honor,  in  his 
name,  to  make  you  a  formal  proposal  of  mar- 
riage. He  has  seen  your  photograph.  He 


The  Garden  of  Eden  297 

has  met  friends  of  yours.  He  knows  your 
writings.  He  respects  and  admires  you.  He 
is  confident  that  he  understands  your  charac- 
ter. He  would  be  proud  to  see  you  doing  the 
honors  of  his  house.  You  are,  he  declares, 
the  one  woman  he  wants.  He  is  not  young, 
it  is  true,  —  somewhat  over  fifty ;  but  he  —  hm ! 
—  looks  very  well,  well  preserved,  I  should 
say  —  solid  and  cheerful,  yes,  quite  so  —  "  the 
affable  ambassador  ran  lightly  over  this  dan- 
gerous ground  —  "  and  he  is  a  man  of  business 
integrity,  of  great  energy;  a  self-made  man, 
as  you  Americans  say,  but  an  intelligent,  well- 
informed,  up-to-date  man ;  and  he  declares  it 
will  be  the  proudest  moment  of  his  life  when 
upon  the  wedding  day  he  has  the  happiness  of 
endowing  you  with  one  million  dollars  in 
your  own  right.  He  suggests  a  'Yes'  by 
telegraph  would  make  some  difference  in  his 
route,  and  particularly  in  his  purchases." 

Elizabeth,  with  both  elbows  on  the  table, 
her  handkerchief  pressed  hard  against  her 
mouth,  watched  the  two  with  wicked  eyes, 
and  thought  this  moment  was  compensation 
for  many  trials,  —  even  for  uncles. 

"My  dear  Miss  Randolph — you  are  surely 
not  displeased  —  offended  —  ?  Have  I  been 
so  unfortunate,  so  awkward  ?  " 


298  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"I  am,"  began  Monica  —  "I  am  —  and 
pained,"  but  her  astonishment  and  indignant 
protest  spoke  for  themselves. 

"  If  in  any  way  I  have  —  " 

"  It  is  not  your  fault,  of  course  —  but  —  " 

"  Then  I  am  to  tell  him  —  " 

"Nothing." 

"Nothing?" 

"Nothing  from  me." 

"But  you  will  be  obliged  to  say  either  yes 
or  no." 

Monica  shook  her  head  obstinately.  But 
meeting  his  solicitous  and  surprised  gaze, 
and  those  eyes  above  the  handkerchief,  her 
irate  goddess-mien  suddenly  vanished  and 
she  deigned  to  laugh,  which  greatly  relieved 
the  banker. 

"I  will  tell  you,  not  him,"  she  said,  "that 
a  man  who  wants  to  marry  a  woman  would 
better  come  and  take  his  chances  like  a  man 
—  whether  he  have  ten  millions  or  ten  cents. 
And  if  I  seemed  ungracious  just  now  —  " 

"I  was  quite  inconsolable,"  he  protested. 

"  You  looked  furious,  Monica,  —  such  a 
temper !  " 

"  I  am  sorry.  Of  course  one  ought  not  to 
take  anything  so  grotesque  seriously.  But,  I 
assure  you,  at  first  I  saw  no  humor  in  the 


The  Garden  of  Eden  299 

situation.  It  seemed  to  me  a  downright  in- 
sult, —  an  outrage." 

"  But  I  am  not  exactly  the  man  to  convey 
insults  to  charming  young  ladies,"  suggested 
the  banker,  more  gravely.  "Of  course  it  is 
an  unusual  thing.  But  you  Americans  are 
unusual.  Ten  million  dollars  are  unusual 
also,  permit  me  to  assure  you.  Now,  I  don't 
want  you  to  look  at  me  again  in  that  wither- 
ing manner.  But  I  should  like  to  say  a  few 
things  to  you  if  I  may,  and  be  a  good  friend 
and  counsellor,  as  I  hope  you  consider  me." 

Monica  extended  a  quick  and  cordial  hand. 

"Say  anything  you  like." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  a  little  romantic." 

"  A  little ! "  muttered  a  voice  behind  the 
handkerchief. 

"  I  don't  think  you  regard  the  question  in 
all  lights.  I  am  not  a  mercenary  man.  I 
flatter  myself  I  am  a  fairly  liberal  man.  But 
I  beg  you,  seriously,  to  think  twice  before 
you  reject  this  offer.  To  a  woman  like  you 
it  means  power  unlimited.  All  portals  open 
before  ten  millions.  All  courts,  all  art 
treasures,  a  life  as  fascinating  as  fairyland  is 
within  your  reach.  And  the  good  you  can  do 
to  your  fellow-creatures,  —  have  you  thought 
of  that?  I  happen  to  know  your  instincts  in 


300  The  Garden  of  Eden 

that  respect.  Our  bank  has  a  clever  little 
bird-in-the-air.  Think  what  charities,  what 
blessings,  you  could  sow  broadcast !  And  the 
hearts  comforted  and  the  tears  wiped  away! 
And  the  children!  What  could  you  not  do 
for  children!  I  happen  to  know  you  are 
foolish  over  children  —  even  dirty  ones.  So 
wonderful  a  future  lies  before  you,  and  you 
have  but  to  take  one  step  to  attain  it. " 

"Oh,  how  I  should  like  it,"  cried  Monica, 
longingly  allured  and  deeply  stirred  by  these 
visions,  —  "  how  I  should  like  it  "  —  she  gave 
a  great  sigh  —  "  without  the  man !  " 

"  Another  thing.  Even  if  his  overtures  are 
unsympathetic,  would  it  in  any  respect  com- 
promise your  dignity,  should  you  simply 
allow  him  to  come  here  and  make  your  ac- 
quaintance? You  give  him  no  definite  en- 
couragement. You  reserve  your  decision. 
But  you  might  like  him,  you  know.  I  assure 
you  he  is  a  very  good  sort " 

"  Bravo,  ambassador ! "  murmured  the  stifled 
voice. 

"I  think,"  rejoined  Monica,  with  dangerous 
sweetness,  "he  'd  better  buy  himself  a  woman 
in  countries  where  such  merchandise  is  for 
sale." 

"But,  dear  Miss  Randolph  — "  he  looked 


The  Garden  of  Eden  301 

grave,  for  he  liked  her,  and  thought  her  atti- 
tude most  childish. 

She  smiled,  and  said  no  more.  It  seemed 
to  her  no  words  could  indicate,  if  instinct 
were  silent,  what  that  man  had  done,  and 
what  he  was. 

"Tell  him  if  he  'd  like  me  he  may  have  me 
cheap,"  Elizabeth  flung  in  startlingly.  "A 
modest  half -million  is  good  enough  for  me." 

"He  could  do  worse,"  the  banker  stated, 
with  deep  barytone  conviction. 

"Don't  you  believe  her,"  said  Monica.  "I 
know  her  better. " 

"But  any  one  would  take  him,"  he  insisted, 
with  considerable  discontent.  "  I  shall  still 
venture  to  write  to  you  and  give  you  his 
name  and  address.  You  may  reconsider.  I 
do  not  know  one  woman  who  would  let  this 
opportunity  slip  through  her  fingers." 

"Ah,  I  think  better  of  my  sex,"  retorted 
Monica.  "Thanks  for  all  your  interest  and 
great  patience,  and  I  hope  you  will  continue 
to  like  me  a  little,  though  I  am  not  a  nabob." 

"Monica,"  began  Elizabeth,  with  a  serious 
air,  when  they  were  alone,  "  not  every  woman 
consciously  achieves  her  epitaph.  Yours  is 
magnificent:  Here  lies  One  who  refused  Ten 
Million  Dollars.  Is  that  not  grand  in  its 


302  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Spartan  simplicity?  Wait.  It  is  customary 
to  accentuate  the  virtues  of  the  departed. 
Call  it  pounds.  Here  lies  One  who  refused 
Ten  Million  Pounds.  That  reads  better.  — 
'Pounds'  is  so  trenchant.  We  need  not 
specify  you  were  a  woman.  One  is  sufficient. 
No  man  on  earth  ever  refused  as  much  as 
that." 

Monica's  careless  laughter  was  suddenly 
checked  by  a  sombre  shade  of  reminiscence, 
and  she  said,  in  her  face  and  voice  an  appeal 
which  Elizabeth  found  pathetic :  — 

"I  really  dare  not  jest,  dear." 

"We  will  jest  all  we  like,"  declared  Eliza- 
beth, with  sturdy  defiance. 

"It  is  immensely  droll,"  Monica  admitted, 
smiling  in  spite  of  herself. 

"It  is  glorious.  Do  you  suppose  he  is  a 
pork-packer  ?  " 

"Not  improbable.  That  solid,  well-pre- 
served, cheerful  —  " 

"  Self-made  —  business-like —  up-to-date  — " 

"Very  good  sort." 

After  a  silence,  Elizabeth  said : 

"How  perfectly  one  sees  the  old  Turk! 
What  are  you  thinking  behind  that  '  thinker's 
brow  '  ?  Think  aloud,  Monica." 

"  I  am  wondering  at  his  colossal  naivete'. " 


The  Garden  of  Eden  303 

"Your  terms  are  mild." 

"  Oh,  yes.  It  is  really  not  worth  while  to 
waste  much  rhetoric  on  him.  And  I  am 
speculating  upon  an  astounding  fact." 

"  Which  is,  O  Solomon  ?  " 

"  That  the  world  would  not  think  me  an  im- 
moral woman  should  I  telegraph  'Yes  '  to 
India  to-day.  The  world  and  all  churches 
would  sanction  my  marriage  with  this  man." 

"Rather!" 

"  Which  mainly  confirms  me  in  a  convic- 
tion I  have  entertained  for  a  long  time,  that 
conventional  morality  is  an  insidious  form  of 
vice.  In  a  high  civilization,  so  depraved,  so 
impure  a  marriage  could  not  be  countenanced 
an  instant.  I  suppose  we  do  not  even  suspect 
how  barbarous  we  still  are." 

"  Hear,  hear! " 

"Elizabeth,"  Monica  asked  very  thought- 
fully, "why  do  odious  and  melodramatic 
things  happen  to  me?" 

"My  dear,  I  do  not  know.  I  have  often 
speculated  upon  that.  No  one  looks  more 
cool  and  remote  than  you." 

"  Nevertheless  —  " 

"Huge  tiles  fall  on  your  head.  Why  do 
you  not  write  a  book  and  call  it  Bombs  for  the 
Lonely  f  One  ought  to  get  the  good,  some- 


304  The  Garden  of  Eden 

how,  out  of  undeserved  miseries.  I  'd  write 
them  up ! " 

"  Oh,  it  would  be  impossible  to  write  per- 
sonal matters,"  exclaimed  Monica,  with 
emphasis. 

"Why?  The  public  delights  to  get  on  the 
wrong  scent.  I  have  a  friend  in  London  who 
writes  —  really  writes :  books,  not  pot-boilers, 
my  dear,  like  yours.  She  says  when  she 
draws  vaguely  on  the  unseen  everybody  recog- 
nizes and  verifies  her  characters;  she  is  vitu- 
perated in  the  newspapers,  narrowly  escapes  a 
summons  for  libel,  and  is  cut  publicly  by  old 
friends.  But  when  she  consciously  reflects 
reality,  the  very  people  she  has  sketched 
never  suspect  it" 

"  I  would  rather  forget  than  chronicle  some 
of  my  experiences.  Still,  you  are  right; 
nobody  would  believe  them  genuine." 

"Oh,  'dear,  no!  They  would  praise  your 
trained  imagination.  They  would  take  you 
for  a  little  Jules  Verne." 

Love  affairs  sometimes  grow,  like  black- 
berries, in  clusters.  The  season  over-shad- 
owed by  that  sinister  experience,  and  not  long 
after  enlivened  by  the  humorous  episode  of 
the  naively  proffered  millions,  presented  to 
Monica  various  problems  of  the  heart,  which, 


The  Garden  of  Eden  305 

being  wholesome,  sane,  in  the  natural  order 
of  things,  occasioned  her  considerable  thought, 
but  no  consternation.  It  was  socially  a 
rather  gay  winter  for  her.  She  was  much 
invited,  —  far  more  than  before  her  plunge 
into  public  disfavor;  but  she  was  watched 
narrowly,  particularly  when  talking  with 
exceedingly  clever  men  who  interested  her 
and  roused  her  enthusiasm  for  a  theme,  an 
idea.  She  was  often  conscious,  with  a  sud- 
den chill,  that  women  were  seeking  to  dis- 
cover the  black  arts  with  which  she  bewitched 
poor  Steiner;  and  her  animation,  her  warmth, 
the  response  upon  her  lip,  would  die  away, 
blighted. 

It  was  not  for  her  enjoyment  that  she  went 
out  frequently.  She  granted  that  bright 
moments  of  sympathy  may  shine  even  in  dull 
crowds :  that  the  swift  magnetic  flash  of 
recognition  of  our  own  kind  may  illumine 
them,  — that  pleasant  sense  of  home-coming, 
when,  after  wearying  about  among  indifferent 
people,  we  are  greeted  by  the  eyes  and  voice 
of  a  brother  whom  we  never  before  had  found. 

But  in  general  she  cared  not  at  all  for  the 
large  gyrations  of  society,  and  gyrated  herself 
merely  to  please  her  friends,  who  were  inex- 
orable in  their  demand  that  she  should  be 


306  The  Garden  of  Eden 

continually  seen  in  the  best  houses.  Old 
Excellenz  Count  Ehrenstein  and  the  Countess 
insisted  upon  taking  her  everywhere;  the 
Lorings  seemed  moved  by  a  similar  desire; 
Countess  Arco,  after  observing  the  pointed 
attentions  of  the  Ehrensteins,  Countess  Gerold, 
and  others,  renewed  her  temporarily  relaxed 
amiability;  the  Frau  Professor  would  not 
countenance  the  refusal  of  the  most  ordinary 
invitation;  even  Elizabeth  and  Eleanor  dragged 
Monica  out,  and  all  the  world  seemed  in  clam- 
orous league  against  her  peaceful  evenings  at 
home.  She  perceived  their  design,  yielded 
to  their  solicitude,  but  asked  herself  how  a 
suicide  and  false  witness  were  to  be  rectified 
by  the  disclosure  of  a  pair  of  evening  shoulders 
and  a  reverence  before  His  Royal  Highness. 

Mr.  Loring  told  her  she  ought  to  keep  a 
note-book  and  make  studies  of  the  exalted 
personages  she  met.  He  thought  he  perceived 
in  her  work  the  want  of  the  note-book.  The 
altitude  of  the  note-book  she  never  reached, 
and  the  exalted  personages  rarely  interested 
her.  They  seemed  to  be  rather  sad  and  dull, 
and  produced  dulness,  since  until  they  made 
their  august  exit  the  young  people  could  not 
dance. 

Baron    Lobanow,    clever  and   artistic,    in- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  307 

clined  to  be  delicately  mindful  of  her  inter- 
ests, advised  her  strongly  not  to  neglect 
society.  It  also  was  of  use  to  the  artist,  he 
asserted,  partly  because  he  believed  this, 
partly  because  he  liked  to  meet  her.  She, 
wondering,  responded :  — 

"  Not  in  dreams  have  I  assumed  the  glori- 
fied name  of  artist." 

"  Sometimes  we  entertain  angels  unawares," 
he  said  kindly. 

Which  she  thought  graceful  on  his  part,  but 
continued  in  her  heart  to  consider  the  circum- 
stantial routine  of  society  Danaid-toil,  and  to 
believe  that  she  would  have  been  happier  and 
better  off  alone  on  a  hill-top,  under  the  stars, 
any  hour  that  she  ever  passed  in  a  crowded 
drawing-room.  Stuffy  gregariousness  was  to 
her  a  penance. 

One  compensation  for  much  social  tedious- 
ness  was  the  music  and  the  significance  of 
foreign  tongues.  Life  seemed  richer  where 
Russian,  French,  Hungarian,  Spanish,  Eng- 
lish, Italian,  and  German  followed  one  an- 
other in  sparkling,  chromatic  succession. 
Sometimes  she  heard  a  bit  of  Greek  and 
Japanese;  there  was  picturesqueness  too  in 
the  ever-varying  national  types  that  passed 
before  her  Not  an  abundance  of  household 


308  The  Garden  of  Eden 

gods,  not  local  dignities,  seemed  to  her  desir- 
able, but  to  roam  from  land  to  land  with  the 
loved  one,  and  to  speak  in  many  tongues; 
thus  coming  nearer  to  the  hearts  of  strange 
folk,  our  brothers,  whom  we  misjudge,  not 
understanding  their  language,  even  as  we 
misjudge  those  nearer  friends,  our  horses  and 
dogs,  whose  eloquent  remarks  to  us  we  are  too 
dull  to  interpret. 

The  uniforms,  decorations  and  titles,  were 
to  her  —  be  it  whispered  under  the  rose  — 
nonsense.  After  all,  it  is  but  a  later  develop- 
ment of  the  wampum-and-feather  taste,  that 
European  chieftains  strut  about,  their  breasts 
bedizened  with  bright  bits  of  enamel  and 
metal,  materialized  boasts  of  their  prowess  or 
of  the  favor  of  their  sachem.  Viewed  in  long 
perspective,  say,  when  the  historian  of  an 
enlightened  future  epoch  shall  contemplate 
our  angry  problems,  our  struggles  out  of  and 
relapses  into  savagery,  our  cruelties,  our  dark- 
ness, dense,  yet  illumined  by  great  guiding 
gleams  of  love  and  light,  —  surely  these 
danglers  on  men's  breasts  will  look  altogether 
Comanche-like,  no  better,  no  worse. 

At  a  reception  where  princes,  ambassadors, 
nobles,  dignitaries  of  all  degrees  were  mag- 
nificent in  gala,  Monica,  while  demurely 


The  Garden  of  Eden 


309 


responding  to  the  amenities  of  a  duke,  whose 
manner  was  simplicity  itself,  but  whose  breast 
was  pompous  with  trophies,  coolly  reflected: 

"  It  is  forbidden  by  common  consent  to  say : 
'This  I  did  bravely  on  a  certain  day.  I  led 
the  spirited  charge  of  my  brigade!'  Or:  'I 
am  a  scholar ;  a  scientist ;  an  author ;  a  painter ; 
I  have  discovered,  invented,  commemorated, 
written,  created  something  of  worth.'  The 
frank  word  is  tabooed;  men's  tongues  must 
simulate  humility.  But  that  no  one,  never- 
theless, need  fail  to  read  the  register  of  our 
perfections,  the  brave  man,  the  artist,  the 
scholar,  pins  upon  his  coat  gay  danglers  which 
shall  boast  for  him,  since  he  has  not  the 
honesty  to  boast  for  himself.  Those  little 
medals  and  crosses  worn  by  warriors  to  com- 
memorate deeds  on  battlefields  are  merely 
neat  modifications  of  the  scalps  of  their 
enemies. 

"Since  war  is  wholly  barbarous,  barbaric 
and  cruel  mementoes  of  its  horrors  are,  at 
least,  explicable.  But  the  scholar,  the  poet 
and  painter?  How,  in  all  seriousness,  can 
they  deign  to  wear  upon  their  breasts  twink- 
ling toys  and  gewgaws  parading  royal  favor? 
What  of  worth  may  the  monarch  offer  to  the 
artist  but  gratitude  and  homage  ?  " 


310  The  Garden  of  Eden 

But  she  was  not  altogether  iconoclastic. 
She  saw  much  to  admire,  — beauty  and  charm 
in  women  and  men,  and  intellectual  distinc- 
tion, —  for  she  met  many  famous  people,  and 
much  to  interest  her,  particularly  in  love 
affairs,  her  own  and  her  neighbors'. 

Mr.  Forsythe  was  very  persistent.  She 
admitted  a  frank  regard  for  him,  which  he,  in 
his  sensible  and  cheerful  fashion,  sought  to 
persuade  her  was  quite  sufficient.  Had  she 
never  known  a  deeper  affection,  she  might 
have  believed  this,  for  she  looked  kindly  upon 
his  candid  English  face  and  admired  many 
things  in  him.  One  short  note  came  from 
Keith  during  that  whole  winter.  Any  friend 
might  have  written  it.  But  it  moved  her 
mightily.  It  said,  simply,  he  thought  he 
ought  to  tell  her  she  was  doing  better  work. 
He  had  liked  some  things  of  hers  of  late. 
And  she  was  touched  and  thrilled,  and  beyond 
all  reason  grateful,  and  glowed  with  happi- 
ness for  the  comfort  of  the  tacit  assurance 
that  he  still  cared  for  her  weal  and  woe. 
With  unwonted  temerity  she  resolved  to  do 
great  things.  But  when  a  most  parsimonious 
expression  of  approval  of  one  man  has  this 
electric  effect  upon  a  woman,  she  cannot  well 
marry  another  man,  even  though  she  regard 


The  Garden  of  Eden  311 

him  with  cordial  and  fraternal  affection.  At 
least,  Monica  could  not. 

They  said,  of  course,  she  flirted  unmerci- 
fully with  him  and  led  him  on.  If  liking  a 
man  sincerely,  finding  him  a  charming  com- 
rade, being  sure  one  could  gladly  welcome  his 
sympathetic  face  and  voice  and  quality  of 
mind  every  day  of  one's  life  in  honest  friend- 
liness, in  free  and  simple  companionship,  be 
flirting,  Monica  flirted  with  Mr.  Forsythe. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  of  that. 

She  missed  him  much  when  he  left  town, 
but  not  unsagaciously  deemed  it  propitious 
that  he  had  obtained  another  appointment 
before  the  arrival  of  her  mother.  Mrs.  Ran- 
dolph was  coming  without  fail  in  April. 
Arthur  Forsythe  was  a  man  of  distinction, 
and  of  great  expectations. 

Lai  Loring  was  another  of  her  victims.  It 
is  quite  preposterous  that  lads  of  nineteen 
should  fall  in  love  with  women  already  six- 
and-twenty.  But  the  lads  do  and  will.  Mother 
Nature  has  opposed  no  restrictions.  On  the 
contrary.  Happily  he  was  at  home  only  in 
the  holidays,  but  those  were  quite  sufficiently 
frequent  and  long  to  enable  him  to  cause 
Monica  much  bewilderment.  Her  grand- 
motherly airs  he  derided.  The  difference  in 


312  The  Garden  of  Eden 

age  was  something  too  paltry  to  be  mentioned, 
he  asserted  with  fiery  scorn,  but  took  pains  to 
cite  historical  instances  which,  in  his  opinion, 
sustained  his  suit.  He  was  so  inflammable, 
so  much  in  earnest,  so  disdainful  of  reason, 
so  nonsensical,  such  a  good,  merry  fellow, 
withal,  transformed  unaccountably  into  this 
scowling,  teeth-gnashing  swain,  Monica  found 
it  impossible  to  take  him  seriously,  and  some- 
times was  guilty  of  laughing,  when  he  swore 
that  he  hated  her,  but  speedily  knelt  at  her 
feet  and  blubbered  his  remorse.  If  she  then, 
in  compassion  ventured  to  put  her  hand  on 
his  curly  and  contrite  head,  for  he  was  only  a 
great  boy,  and  in  this  crouching  attitude  not 
unlike  a  great  dog  begging  for  a  pat,  she 
found  the  proceeding  dangerous. 

Baron  Lobanow's  devotion,  as  befitted  a 
man  of  the  world  of  his  discrimination,  was 
not  torrid  and  volcanic,  but  measured,  grace- 
ful, merging  indeed  occasionally  into  a 
quasi-lover-like  strain,  which  might  have  dis- 
mayed her  had  she  not  perceived  its  reassur- 
ing catholicity.  He  was  analytic,  sophistical, 
a  good  art  critic,  professedly  pessimistic, 
rather  fin  de  sihle,  and  at  heart  an  excellent 
man,  very  loyal  to  his  friends. 

He,  also,  benevolently  desired  to  improve 


Monica's  mind.  Her  chief  difficulty  in  his 
opinion  was  her  ideals.  Without  ideals  he 
felt  convinced  she  would  become  a  better 
writer.  Ideals  were  out  of  date.  Monica 
could  not  oblige  him.  She  was  at  a  loss  to 
know  how  to  eradicate  them  from  her  system. 
Had  she  followed  the  kind  counsels  of  those 
who  desired  to  pluck  her  imperfections  from 
her,  her  small  talent,  like  the  homme  entre 
deux  Ages,  would  now  be  entirely  bald.  How- 
ever, she  enjoyed  with  Lobanow  exhilarat- 
ingly  controversial  discussions  which  reminded 
her  of  old  days  and  pungent  table-talk  at 
Judge  Trevor's. 

Other  men  manifested  more  or  less  warm 
interest  in  Monica.  Many  experiences  com- 
manded her  sympathy,  her  respect.  Some 
few,  with  equal  reason,  roused  less  benign 
emotions.  There  are  foolish  and  frivol- 
ous men  everywhere,  particularly  loafing 
about  thrones.  Of  no  essential  importance, 
they  should  perhaps  be  muzzled  in  hot 
weather. 

This  third  winter  of  her  absence  was  alto- 
gether a  fertile  season.  Time  had  induced 
by  no  means  resignation,  but,  in  view  of  her 
utter  powerlessness  to  change  matters,  a  cer- 
tain fluctuating  patience  in  her  attitude 


314  The  Garden  of  Eden 

toward  Keith.  She  was  less  self-absorbed 
than  in  the  time  when  she  received  and  lived 
upon  his  letters  and  the  reminiscence  and 
dreams  they  reinvoked.  She  was  older,  and 
her  startling  and  bitter  experience  of  the 
autumn  had  opened  her  eyes  to  ugly  facts, 
and  doubtless  caused  her  to  observe  all  things 
in  her  range  with  far  more  honesty  and  thor- 
oughness than  before. 

She  had  rich  opportunity  to  study  human 
nature,  for  at  this  period  many  fragments  of 
lives  were  confided  to  her,  —  bits  of  tragedies, 
bits  of  farces,  and  love-stories  partaking  of 
tragedy  and  farce.  Men  twice  her  age,  men 
of  her  own  land  and  other  lands,  found  it  quite 
natural  to  relate  to  her  their  domestic  infelici- 
ties, and  she  found  it  not  unnatural  to  listen. 
Women  were  no  less  communicative.  Occa- 
sionally she  heard,  with  peculiar  sentiments, 
and  more  diplomatic  reserve  than  usually  dis- 
tinguished her,  grievances  —  in  unsuspected 
antiphony  —  of  man  and  wife.  Advise  she 
could  not,  — no  Solon  could,  —  but  she  was  a 
good  listener,  and  speech  sometimes  relieves 
oppressed  hearts.  It  began  to  be  a  matter  of 
course  to  her  that  people  should  come  in  and 
with  few  preliminaries  relate  crass  matrimo- 
nial discords  and  compromising  mazes. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  315 

A  couple  of  lieutenants,  delightfully  in- 
genuous and  charming  youths  despite  their 
detestable  handiwork,  and  wildly  in  love 
with  pretty  American  girls  with  obdurate 
fathers,  implored  her  intercession  and  ser- 
vices as  interpreter.  She  wrote  letters  for 
them  with  the  gravity  of  a  clerk.  She  had 
written  similar  effusions  at  home  for  a  cook 
eminent  in  ministrations  to  the  comfort  and 
delight  of  her  fellow-creatures,  but  guileless 
in  orthography.  "History  repeats  itself," 
she  reflected,  as  the  handsome  young  officers, 
one  after  the  other,  leaned  anxiously  over  her 
writing-table.  "They  are  noble  in  point  of 
ancestors :  Bridget  in  her  treatment  of  meats, 
fowls,  and  game." 

Ever  nearer  and  closer  grew  her  sympathy 
with  Elizabeth  and  Eleanor.  Without  words 
she  divined  their  griefs.  In  all  possible 
ways  they  lovingly  helped  one  another. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  something  in 
her,  she  knew  not  what,  induced  reckless 
and  exhaustive  confidences.  She  cared  vastly 
for  people's  troubles.  They  absorbed  her 
at  the  moment  utterly.  She  would  grow 
chilly  and  faint,  or  generously  indignant 
over  the  recitals  of  her  penitents.  She  was 
foolish  enough,  although  she  knew  better, 


316  The  Garden  of  Eden 

to  long  to  interpose  and  set  things  straight. 
It  would  all  be  so  simple,  indeed,  if  only 
people  would  open  their  eyes,  would  not 
cling  to  vain  idols  after  the  true  gods  had 
passed. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  317 


XII 

"  GRETCHEN  is  my  ideal  of  womanhood," 
Baron  Baretinsky  remarked  to  Monica  as  they 
sat  in  the  Arcos'  box  at  the  theatre  that  evening. 
"  My  ideal  of  womanhood,"  he  repeated,  ca- 
ressing his  long  moustache,  and  listening  to 
himself  with  obvious  pleasure ;  for  sentiment, 
like  truffles,  he  enjoyed,  if  for  different  reasons, 
rarely. 

She  looked  with  polite  incredulity  at  the 
amiable  worldling  of  lightest  calibre,  and 
Lobanow  did  not  scruple  to  laugh  outright. 

"  But  I  assure  you  I  am  in  earnest.  She 
is  my  ideal." 

This  was  not  a  man  with  whom  Monica  cared 
to  discuss  an  earnest  theme,  yet  knowing  that 
the  radiant  and  triumphant  purity  of  Gretchen's 
womanhood  was  not  the  element  for  which 
he  was  expressing  this  unwonted  rapture,  she 
permitted  herself  to  respond  dryly: 

"  But  you  would  not  have  married  her  after 
the  Fourth  Act?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon?  " 


3 1 8  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  I  merely  asked  if  you  would  have  married 
her  after  the  Fourth  Act." 

Lobanow's  smile  was  fairly  Mephistophelian 
as  he  beheld  Baretinsky's  consternation.  There 
was  no  doubt :  the  phenomenon  had  occurred ; 
Baretinsky  the  blagueur  was  shocked.  The 
most  frivolous  man  regards  some  one  subject 
reverently,  has  his  noli  me  tangere.  Baretin- 
sky's was  his  social  position. 

"I  marry  her?  No."  After  an  instant,  with 
increased  emphasis,  "If  Certainly  not." 

"  Ah,  indeed !  "  said  Monica,  quietly,  and 
turned  to  speak  to  Countess  Arco. 

Lieutenant  Uhlefeldt  behind  Florence  Arco's 
chair  was  somewhat  silent  and  dull.  Florence 
looked  listless  and  phlegmatic,  perhaps  vaguely 
wondering,  if  capable  of  wonder,  what  she 
had  to  do  with  it  all,  with  the  loge,  the  stage, 
life  itself.  Monica  glanced  at  her  kindly  now 
and  then,  but  treated  Uhlefeldt  as  thin  air. 

On  the  following  day  Eleanor  and  Elizabeth 
being  in  Monica's  study,  where  they  were  apt 
to  spend  odd  half-hours,  Elizabeth  said  ab- 
ruptly : 

"  Don't  you  think  Florence  Arco  looks  like 
a  little  sheep  ?  " 

"  I  think  she  looks  —  as  well  as  she  can, 
dear." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  319 

"  Yes,  she  looks  like  her  father,"  Elizabeth 
retorted. 

"  Perhaps  she  looks  like  a  little  lamb," 
Monica  amended,  "  gentle  and  inoffensive," 
but  meeting  Elizabeth's  mute  inquiry,  hastened 
to  change  the  subject,  and  narrated  the  little 
joust  with  the  gay  Russian. 

"  My  compliments  !  I  myself  could  have 
said  nothing  worse." 

"  It  was  rather  impertinent,  but  he  looked 
so  self-sufficient  and  bland." 

"  Pertinent,"  said  Eleanor,  "  but  in  his 
opinion  immoral,  at  least  highly  improper." 

"  I  do  not  defend  it.  Perhaps  I  should 
not  have  said  it.  But  in  that  case  ought  I 
to  have  been  there?  Why  should  hundreds 
of  men  and  women  watch  together  a  repre- 
sentation of  the  sublimest  work  of  one  of  the 
world's  geniuses,  if  it  is  unfitting  for  the 
women  to  have  thoughts  and  express  opinions 
upon  it?" 

"  How  often  have  I  tried  to  impress  upon  you, 
dear  Monica,"  called  the  recumbent  Elizabeth 
from  her  sofa,  "  that  a  woman  should  have 
no  thoughts  at  all.  There  is  a  Chinese  prov- 
erb which  I  recommend  to  both  of  you  :  '  The 
chief  virtue  of  woman  is  being  without  talent.'  " 

"  Opinions !  "  Eleanor  resumed.     "  Yes,  but 


3  2O  The  Garden  of  Eden  . 

accepted  opinions.  Baretinsky's  opinions,  one 
might  call  them  categorically.  He  told  me 
once,  in  his  very  debonair  fashion,  that  he  had 
some  cousins  studying  in  Zurich,  but  he  dis- 
approved of  learned  young  ladies.  I  asked 
why.  He  said  learning  made  them  less  loving. 
Woman's  mission  was  to  be  loving  and  child- 
like. Then  he  ogled.  I  inquired  if  he  ob- 
served any  radical  change  in  the  affections 
of  his  little  girls  after  they  learned  the  mul- 
tiplication table." 

"  Children,  if  you  continue,  there  will  be 
nobody  left  for  me  to  insult,"  remonstrated 
Elizabeth. 

"  The  only  person  Monica  has  insulted  is 
Gretchen." 

"  I  beg  her  pardon  on  my  knees.  But  the 
most  appalling  thought  is  that  —  leaving  great 
Faust  quite  out  of  the  question  —  suppose  a 
Baretinsky  should  marry  a  Gretchen,  he  would 
re-establish  what  he  called  her  moral  character, 
and  she  would  be  what  we  call  received. 
Sufficient  imperial  favor  and  wealth,  which 
he  has,  a  trip  round  the  world,  a  new  field  of 
action  —  and  that  sweet  thing  society  would 
smile  upon  them.  It  is  monstrous." 

"  When  one  tries  to  vaguely  picture  the 
life  of  such  a  man  — "  Eleanor  began. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  321 

"And  he  by  no  means  the  worst,  prob- 
ably—" 

"  The  agony,  shame,  and  despair  —  " 

"  The  innumerable  Gretchens !  "  sighed 
Monica.  "  They  cast  out ;  he  welcomed  every- 
where." 

"It  makes  one  ill, — the  huge  mass  of  in- 
justice." 

A  silence,  and  from  the  sofa  only  a  long 
sigh. 

"  But  since  we  perceive,  and  good  men 
perceive,  it  makes  one  strong  to  hope,"  Monica 
said  after  a  while. 

Elizabeth  suddenly  drawled : 

"  I  wonder  what  Florence  Arco  thinks  about 
Gretchen." 

"  Come  here  a  moment,  Elizabeth,  and  look 
at  this  with  us,"  begged  Monica,  taking  a 
large  photograph  from  a  portfolio. 

"  What  a  hideous  thing !  "  Elizabeth  ex- 
claimed, laughing. 

"  Look  at  it  well,  and  you  '11  not  find  it 
hideous." 

Two  half-human  creatures,  not  joyous  like 
the  satyrs,  fauns,  and  centaurs  of  fable,  but 
already  vaguely  oppressed  with  the  burden  of 
humanity ;  the  "  missing  link ; "  the  pri- 
meval pair,  as  shaped  by  the  imagination  and 


322  The  Garden  of  Eden 

brush  of  the  artist:  Gabriel  Max:  Pithe- 
canthropes alalos.  With  acknowledgment  to 
Georg  Malkowsky,  the  suggested  Adam  and 
Eve  of  science.  Two  beings  in  the  shifting 
borderland  between  the  assumed  unconscious- 
ness of  the  animal  kingdom  and  the  first  glim- 
merings of  the  sentient  soul.  In  shape  only 
heavily  built,  abnormal  apes,  —  let  the  wise 
decide  it  if  they  can,  whether  such  anatomy 
be  probable,  —  but  in  the  physiognomy  a 
wonderful  depth  of  expression  that  holds  and 
haunts. 

In  the  male,  the  animal  predominates.  He 
has  immense  jaws  and  a  bestial  mouth,  and 
from  under  drooping  heavy  lids  his  dull  eyes 
apathetically  view  the  outer  world.  Standing 
nearly  erect,  he  clings  still  and  steadies  him- 
self with  arms  and  head  against  a  low  branch, 
as  if  taking  his  first  faltering  step  into  an  un- 
known stage  of  being. 

But  the  primeval  woman,  already  detached 
from  her  natural  surroundings,  cowers  upon 
the  earth  and  nurses  her  offspring.  With 
mournful  eyes  wide  open,  brooding,  veiled 
with  tears,  she  gazes  into  the  distance.  A 
whole  world  of  dawning  emotion  is  in  that 
look.  Through  the  helpless  form  at  her 
breast,  the  life  of  her  life,  she  has  become 


The  Garden  of  Eden  323 

vaguely  prescient  of  the  anguish  of  existence 
for  the  race  which  has  emancipated  itself  from 
unreflecting  nature,  and  the  tears  roll  slowly 
down  her  cheeks  as  if  from  a  dark  present- 
ment of  all  the  woe  she,  the  first  mother,  has 
entailed  upon  humanity. 

The  three  looked  long  and  silently  at  the 
singular  picture,  each  under  the  spell  of  those 
haunting  eyes,  each  in  her  own  way  ponder- 
ing upon  the  mystery  of  life,  of  love,  of  sorrow, 
of  sin,  of  destiny. 

"  It  is  powerful,"  said  Eleanor,  "  and  touch- 
ing." 

"  And  when  one  considers  the  courage," 
Monica  began  impetuously,  —  "  the  divine 
courage  the  race  has  shown  in  the  long 
struggle  —  " 

"  And  shows  to-day  —  " 

"  One  is  proud  to  belong  to  it." 

"  Don't  weep,  little  granny,"  Elizabeth  be- 
gan. "  It  is  a  bit  better  than  you  knew.  We 
are  toddling  along —  slowly." 

"  And  we  shall  arrive  !  "  exclaimed  Monica. 

"Who  knows?  "  said  Eleanor. 

"  I  think  it  fair  to  tell  you,"  Monica  re- 
marked with  a  sudden  little  laugh  as  she  put 
away  the  picture,  "  that  when  my  mother 
comes,  things  will  be  a  trifle  different  here. 


324  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Oh,  you  need  not  look  alarmed,  Elizabeth. 
You  may  still  loll  on  the  sofa  all  you  like. 
But  the  '  Pithecanthropes,'  she  will  probably, 
with  the  utmost  amiability  of  manner,  throw 
into  the  [fire.  She  delighteth  not  in  Darwin. 
And  then  you  see,  at  present,  we  have  things 
here  all  our  own  way.  When  she  comes,  you 
will  find  she  will  oppose  and  often  rout  us 
completely." 

"  So  much  the  better.  That  will  be  more 
interesting,"  rejoined  Eleanor. 

"  Mamma  is  rather  conservative,"  Monica 
went  on,  with  a  mingling  of  great  joy  and 
amusement  in  her  face  and  voice.  "  But  she 
is  generous.  She  will  listen.  She  does  not 
draw  down  her  mouth  and  hurry  off,  as  if  she 
found  contamination,  when  people  do  not 
think  as  she  thinks.  And  she  is  clever.  She 
will  have  an  answer  even  for  you,  Eleanor. 
And  she  is  young — incredibly  young  — 
younger  than  any  of  us." 

"  I  am  old,  if  you  please,"  said  Elizabeth. 
"  A  year  older  than  you,  Monica ;  two  years 
older  than  Eleanor." 

"  I  never  thought  much  about  it ;  but  had 
I  been  asked,  I  should  have  said  you  were 
younger." 

"  Seven  and  twenty  summers  —  rather  mean 


The  Garden  of  Eden  325 

ones  !  But  nobody  suspects  it,  because  of  my 
prattle  and  my"  —  singing — "'sun-ny,  sun-ny 
hair!'" 

"  You  are  going  to  be  mothered  all  the 
same,  young  woman.  You,  too,  Eleanor.  But 
mamma  writes  in  her  letter  this  morning  —  of 
her  own  self —  Elizabeth  and  Rob  must  cer- 
tainly stay  with  us.  We  shall  take  an  apart- 
ment, or  perhaps  a  modest  villa.  She  says 
she  wants  to  remain  here  awhile,  where  people 
have  been  so  good  to  her  child." 

Meeting  the  eyes  of  her  friends,  she  asserted 
as  if  some  one  had  contradicted  her : 

"  People  have  been  good  to  me,  —  wonder- 
fully good." 

"  When  that  blessed  woman  comes,"  Eliza- 
beth declared  with  a  rare  softness  of  expres- 
sion, "  you  two  may  treat  me  with  some  re- 
spect, if  you  please.  I  don't  wish  to  hear  any 
compromising  allusions  to  my  character.  Let 
Mrs.  Randolph  find  it  out  for  herself.  She  is 
quite  able  without  your  assistance.  I  intend 
to  be  her  favorite,  Eleanor,  so  you  need  not 
steal  in  with  those  demure  and  gentle  wiles. 
I  intend  to  be  mothered." 

Eleanor  smiled. 

"  I  shall  like  it,  too,"  she  said  softly. 

"  It  will  be  different,"  Monica  repeated,  her 


326  The  Garden  of  Eden 

face  radiant  with  gladness,  reminiscence,  and 
exceedingly  amused  anticipation.  "  She  is  a 
personality,  you  understand.  But,  ah,  it  is 
beautiful  to  be  mothered !  " 

She  and  Elizabeth,  leaving  the  house  early 
that  evening,  met  Arenberg  passing  the  door. 

He  was  sad  at  heart  and  physically  tired 
out,  had  come  from  discomfort  and  sharp  dis- 
cussion at  home,  dreary  differences  of  opinion 
as  to  expenses,  social  obligations,  and,  worst 
of  all,  the  children,  —  a  scene  more  exhaust- 
ing to  his  vitality  than  even  excessive  pro- 
fessional work ;  was  going  to  see  an  old  friend 
whom  he  knew  he  could  not  save,  and  acute 
neuralgia  was  rioting  in  his  legs.  Upon  the 
pessimistic  melancholy  of  his  plane  of  thought, 
the  two  women  appeared  like  a  vision  of  light. 
He  stopped  to  bid  them  good-evening,  turned, 
and  strolled  along  with  them. 

"  You  are  looking  well,  Miss  Randolph," 
he  said,  regarding  her  with  attention.  His 
thought  was  stronger  than  his  words. 

"  I  am  very  happy,"  returned  Monica.  "  My 
mother  sailed  for  Bremen  this  morning.  We 
shall  always  be  together  now." 

"  I  am  glad.  It  has  been  long  and  hard  for 
you  without  her." 

"  Yes." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  327 

"  She  is  like  a  rubber  ball  to-day,"  Elizabeth 
told  him.  "  I  have  great  difficulty  in  repress- 
ing her  bounce." 

"  She  is  in  the  best  of  hands,"  he  returned, 
smiling. 

"  We  are  on  our  way  to  the  Ehrensteins'/' 
Monica  communicated  farther,  "  for  the  walk 
up  the  hill,  and  to  tell  them  the  good  news. 
They  are  good  enough  to  be  much  interested 
in  her  arrival." 

"  They  are  a  charming  old  couple,"  Aren- 
berg  said  cordially. 

"  If  Miss  Randolph  had  only  taken  the  gen- 
eral young  enough,  she  would  have  succeeded 
in  convincing  him  of  the  inhumanity  of  war. 
She  still  tries,  although  it  is  quite  superfluous, 
as  he  is  long  ago  retired." 

"  He  is  convinced  of  its  inhumanity,"  Monica 
rejoined,  amused ;  "  but  he  persists  in  believ- 
ing it  inevitable.  I  do  my  best,  of  course,  to 
convert  him." 

"  He  is  a  very  enlightened  man.  His  son 
in  Dresden  married  an  American  girl.  I  pre- 
sume she  has  an  illuminating  effect  upon  the 
family,"  Arenberg  suggested. 

"Oh,  did  I  deserve  that?"  cried  Monica, 
laughing. 

He  had  strolled  perhaps  a  block  with  them. 


328  The  Garden  of  Eden 

He  now  stopped  and  took  off  his  hat.  The 
low  sun  traced  golden  threads  in  his  brown 
hair  and  beard,  and  accentuated  the  trans- 
parency of  his  pallor. 

"  You  deserve  something  very  good,  I  sus- 
pect, Miss  Randolph,"  he  said  kindly,  and 
retraced  his  steps,  not  precisely  wishing  either 
of  his  esteemed  old  patients  the  Ehrensteins 
had  a  mild  influenza  or  an  incipient  indi- 
gestion for  him  on  that  pleasant  evening, 
yet  indistinctly  conscious,  as  he  resumed  his 
treadmill,  that  the  freedom  to  walk  on  indefi- 
nitely in  that  bright  companionship  would  be 
sweet. 

"  That  is  the  only  person  I  cannot  jeer  at," 
Elizabeth  declared  roundly.  "  Did  ever  a 
man  take  himself  so  simply?" 

"  I  found  myself  suddenly  telling  him  every- 
thing as  if  he  would  care,"  Monica  remem- 
bered with  surprise.  "  And  he  answered  as  if 
he  cared.  He  is  very  uncommon.  The  first 
time  I  saw  him  I  thought  that." 

"  I  adore  him  !  Everybody  does,  except  a 
few  envious  colleagues  and  his  wife.  I  sup- 
pose there  is  no  doubt  he  has  no  sympathy 
and  affection  from  that  quarter." 

"That  would  be  a  sad  pity — and  extraor- 
dinary —  incredible,  I  should  say." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  329 

"  One  of  the  first  tales  I  heard  when  I  came 
here  was  a  wild  romance  of  years  agone  about 
the  Arenbergs.  Incompatibility  —  indiscre- 
tion, more  or  less,  on  her  part.  On  his  part 
absorption  in  his  profession.  Flirtations  mani- 
fold. Somebody  jumped  from  a  high  window 
and  broke  his  leg.  Scenes.  Talk  of  divorce. 
Arenberg  for  his  children's  sake  relented. 
Stifled  misery." 

"  Why,  Elizabeth,  you  know  you  do  not  be- 
lieve that." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  believe  the  whole  framework. 
It  is  unwieldy,  and  you  know  very  well  I  don't 
disseminate  such  tales.  But  I  have  watched 
that  little  party,  my  dear;  her  manner  to  him; 
her  manner  to  Count  Arco  and  others.  She 
does  not  like  Arenberg,  I  assure  you." 

"  Manner !  What  then?  People  watch  you 
and  me ;  and  if  we  do  not  actually  go  to  sleep 
in  public,  they  say  we  are  sad  flirts.  I  feel 
very  much  inclined  to  let  women  enjoy  in 
peace  the  eyes  and  smiles  they  happen  to 
have  about  them." 

"  I  like  neither  her  nor  her  sister." 

"  Evidently." 

Elizabeth  colored  and  said  hastily : 

"  Not  because  Florence  Arco  is  always  driv- 
ing them  out  in  her  pony  basket  —  " 


33°  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  I  hope  not.  I  imagine  Florence  Arco 
merely  does  what  she  is  told  to  do." 

This  point  Elizabeth  waived  and  resumed : 

"  For  altogether  different  reasons.  I  never 
fancied  them  from  the  first,  I  admit  But  I 
know  certain  attitudes  they  have  taken  at  cer- 
tain times,  and  —  I  think  they  'd  better  sweep 
their  own  pavements  —  " 

"  Healthful  exercise  for  us  all." 

"  I  confess  I  am  sorry  for  Dr.  von  Arenberg. 
I  am  always  sorry  for  the  men  and  women 
who  manage  to  get  chained  for  life  to  the 
wrong  ones  —  particularly  for  the  handsome 
men !  " 

Monica  was  silent 

"  I  don't  know  why  it  need  be,  either,  do 
you?  A  man  is  rash  and  makes  a  bad  specu- 
lation in  stocks,  say.  He  shrugs  his  shoulders 
and  says,  What  a  fool  I  was !  But  he  does  not, 
as  in  matrimony,  suffer  from  his  want  of  judg- 
ment to  the  end  of  his  days,  and  perhaps 
entail  suffering  upon  his  children's  children  to 
the  third  and  fourth  generation  after  him,  all 
because  he  made  a  mistake  twenty  years  ago. 
It  is  horrible.  I  wonder  more  people  are  not 
divorced." 

Monica  with  a  remote  look,  hesitating,  said : 

"  I  suppose  it  may  be  a  matter  of  honor  — 


The  Garden  of  Eden  33 1 

or  duty  —  not  to  leave  a  woman  —  or  a  man  — 
even  if  one  knows  what  we  call  happiness  lies 
elsewhere." 

"  It  is  hard." 

"  Yes." 

"  Stupid  world  !  What  's  to  be  done  with 
it?" 

"  I  suppose  there  may  be  cases,"  said  Mon- 
ica again,  as  if  her  thoughts  were  far  away, 
"  where  it  is  right  to  extricate  one's  self,  and 
other  cases  when  one  —  must  go  down  with 
one's  ship." 

"  I  never  could  see  the  slightest  sense  in 
going  down  with  one's  ship.  It  is  heroic,  of 
course,  but  so  utterly  useless." 

Monica  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Ah,  no !  Not  useless ;  never  once  use- 
less since  the  world  was  made." 

After  a  while  Elizabeth  returned,  in  her 
voice  a  certain  defiance : 

"  I  like  lovers  who  have  resolution  enough  to 
take  their  fate  in  their  own  hands  and  elope." 

"  I  like  them  too." 

"  Even  if  they  know  anathema  will  follow 
them,"  Elizabeth  added  hotly. 

"  I  understand  that  too." 

"  Oh,  do  you  ?  "  Her  voice  was  mocking, 
eager. 


332.  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  I  do,  Elizabeth.  If  a  man  and  woman 
choose  to  sacrifice  the  others,  I  understand. 
If  they  choose  to  sacrifice  themselves,  I  under- 
stand. But  there  are  almost  always  the  others. 
And  if  love  has  to  walk  over  bodies  —  " 

"  Mean  bodies !  "  Elizabeth  exclaimed 
fiercely.  "  What  does  it  matter  about  them  ?  " 

Monica  slipped  her  arm  in  her  friend's. 

"  Dear,  is  there  anything  in  this  world  I  can 
do  for  you  ?  Is  there  anything  —  more  —  you 
wish  to  say  to  me?  " 

"  No,  no.  I  cannot !  "  Then  more  gen- 
tly, "  If  ever  there  is,  I  will  tell  you.  Never 
mind  me.  I  still  say  it  seems  to  me  imbecile 
for  Dr.  Arenberg  and  his  wife  to  cling  to 
the  outward  form  of  marriage  and  jog  along 
together  miserably,  when  both  would  be  better 
off  apart." 

"  No  one  knows  that." 

"  The  whole  town  knows  it." 

"  The  whole  town !  "  cried  Monica,  with  un- 
utterable contempt.  "  Is  it  well  for  you  to  say 
that  —  to  me?" 

"  Well,  /  know  it,"  Elizabeth  declared 
obstinately. 

"  No  stranger's  eye  can  judge.  It  is  imper- 
tinent and  worse  to  assume  such  familiarity 
with  interiors." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  333 

"  I  was  born  impertinent." 

"  I  have  seen  her  only  at  a  distance  at  large 
receptions  and  the  opera.  I  thought  her 
rather  nice,  —  bright  and  pretty." 

"  For  his  sake  I  wish  she  were  an  angel  in 
the  house.  But  she  looketh  it  not.  Nay, 
neither  she  nor  her  sister." 

"  From  your  point  of  view." 

"  Yes.  It  happens  to  be  the  only  one  I 
have  at  my  disposal.  If  you  are  haughty  to 
me,  Monica,  I  '11  tell  your  mother.  My  temper 
is  rather  vicious  in  these  days.  That  is  the 
fault  of  my  hair." 

"  Pretty  hair !  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you  something  nice  for  that. 
Once,  long  ago  before  you  came,  I  happened 
to  be  talking  with  Dr.  Arenberg  at  some  place 
where  he  passed  in  his  usual  fashion  like  a 
gleam, —  or  as  if  he  had  Fortunatus's  cap,  —  at 
all  events,  as  if  he  knew  the  plan  and  ins  and 
outs  of  every  house  in  town;  I  remember  I 
was  asking  him  if  he  had  what  Punch  calls  a 
good  bedside  manner.  He  replied  that  he 
really  did  n't  know ;  he  believed  he  did  n't 
drum  on  the  footboard.  At  this  moment  old 
Baron  Uhlefeldt  bore  down  upon  us.  '  Aren- 
berg,' he  said,  after  the  preliminary  salaams, 
'  I  have  always  wanted  to  ask  you  something.' 


334  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Dr.  Arenberg  did  not  say,  Ask.  He  merely 
waited  with  that  polite,  patient,  look  of  his,  —  it 
is  too  mild  for  irony,  but  it  is  delicious,  what- 
ever it  is.  '  What  induces  you  to  reject  your 
title?'  'Reject  is  too  impressive,  Baron. 
One  does  not  reject  an  old  glove.  One 
simply  wears  it  no  longer.'  'The  honorable 
title  of  your  forefathers,'  began  Uhlefeldt,  with 
respect.  '  Oh,  I  think  we  have  had  enough  of 
that  comedy,'  Dr.  Arenberg  returned  care- 
lessly, and  asked  after  Rob.  But  the  Baron 
was  not  to  be  shunted  off.  Very  jovially  he 
continued :  '  And  you  must  not  mind  an  old 
fellow's  curiosity,  but  why  any  man  of  birth 
should  choose  to  be  a  sawbones  instead  of  a 
soldier,  is  quite  beyond  my  comprehension.' 
'  I  presume  so,'  said  Dr.  Arenberg,  with  ineffa- 
ble harmlessness,  and  his  glance  just  grazed 
the  portly  old  major's  breast,  which  you  must 
admit,  Monica  — "  Elizabeth  laughed  with  a 
touch  of  spiteful  satisfaction  — "  looks  like  a 
stately  pleasure-dome.  '  I  presume  not.  But 
it  happened  that  I  had  the  good  fortune  early 
in  life  to  recognize  my  limitations.  I  foresaw 
that  my  dimensions  would  never  attain  con- 
tours desirable  for  a  major,  might  hardly  in- 
deed exceed  the  proper  figure  for  a  lieutenant. 
That  would  have  been  humiliating.'  And 


The  Garden  of  Eden  335 

there  he  stood,  so  cool,  refined,  and  elegant, 
and  so  handsome,  though  that 's  not  the 
word.  '  Oh,  you  have  a  good  height,  Aren- 
berg.  You  would  have  looked  very  well.'  " 

"  He  has  a  spiritual  face,"  suggested  Monica. 

"  Yes.  He  wears  a  halo,  I  suspect.  And 
the  old  baron,  looking  like  a  prize  ox  and 
wheezing  like  a  great  bassoon,  began  to  assure 
him  condescendingly :  '  It  is  a  great  mistake 
on  your  part,  upon  my  word.'  But  he,  having 
given  me  a  fine  smile  and  quick  grasp  of  the 
hand,  was  already  making  his  way  toward 
some  unsuspected  door." 

Monica  had  many  messages  to  deliver  from 
her  mother  to  the  Countess  Ehrenstein,  whom 
with  characteristic  decision  Mrs.  Randolph 
had  selected  as  most  sympathetic  in  Monica's 
entire  circle  of  acquaintances.  In  fact,  the 
two  ladies  had  been  corresponding  for  some 
months.  As  the  countess  was  not  only  one 
of  Monica's  kindest  but  unquestionably  her 
most  distinguished  friend,  a  woman  of  intel- 
lect, influence,  and  grace  that  defied  the  years, 
the  rapid  progress  of  this  intimacy  was  one 
of  the  things  that  so  often  of  late  called 
the  little  amused  speculative  expression  into 
Monica's  face. 

It  was  one  of  those  delightful  evenings  the 


336  The  Garden  of  Eden 

charm  of  which  lingers  like  the  memory  of  a 
beautiful  and  quiet  landscape.  Monica  never 
forgot  it.  The  exquisite  tone  between  the 
fine  old  man  and  his  fine  old  wife ;  a  subtle 
mingling  of  perfect  devotion  and  the  delicate 
jest  that  slightly  masks  it;  the  old  general's 
last  poem  —  on  the  eve  of  many  a  battle  he  had 
sent  verses  to  his  wife ;  some  interesting  pic- 
tures examined  and  chatted  over;  Elizabeth's 
voice  pouring  forth  gloriously  —  always  at  its 
best  in  what  seemed  most  remote  from  her 
nature  —  music  expressing  religious  fervor 
and  profound  emotion  —  Pieta  Signore  and 
Massenet's  fil^gie;  some  pretty  young  girls, 
little  countesses,  coming  in  with  soft,  deferen- 
tial manners,  making  their  rfotrence  and  kiss- 
ing the  countess'  hand  —  but  evidently  very 
fond  of  her  and  quite  at  home  in  the  house ; 
some  young  officers,  men  with  excellent  faces 
and  bright  uniforms,  gleaming  briefly  and 
picturesquely  upon  the  scene  —  all  was  free, 
sympathetic,  gracious,  harmonious,  and  the 
old  count  amiably  walked  home  with  them. 

Frau  Erhardt  met  them  with  the  announce- 
ment that  there  was  something  nice  on  the 
dining-room  table. 

"  But  we  have  already  had  something  nice 
at  the  Ehrensteins'." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  337 

"  It  is  only  very  light  —  only  a  velvet- 
cream,"  pleaded  the  Frau  Professor. 

"  Which  I  by  no  means  scorn,"  said 
Elizabeth. 

"  Nor  do  I,"  returned  Monica.  "  Only  it  is 
queer  and  inconsistent  business,  this  eating. 
When  one 's  hungry,  it  is  perfect.  When  one 
is  unhappy  it  is  a  bore.  But  to-day  I  'd  like 
to  take  my  sunlight  straight." 

A  servant  handed  her  a  telegram. 

She  opened  it  smiling,  and  without  a  word 
fell  to  the  floor. 

Her  mother  was  dead. 


33  8  The  Garden  of  Eden 


XIII 

ARENBERG  came  in  with  Frau  Erhardt,  stood 
still  by  the  door,  bowed  silently  to  Elizabeth 
across  the  room,  and  quietly  watched  Monica, 
who,  taking  no  notice  of  them,  was  irration- 
ally occupied  in  walking  rather  fast  through 
three  or  four  rooms,  turning  brusquely  when  a 
wall  or  window  or  piece  of  furniture  impeded 
her  course. 

"  We  can  do  nothing  with  her,"  the  Frau 
Professor  had  told  him.  "  She  has  hardly 
touched  a  morsel.  I  think  she  has  not  slept. 
I  hear  her  at  night  going  on  just  the  same. 
She  races  about  tearless,  speechless,  and 
pushes  us  all  aside.  We  beg  her  to  have 
mercy  upon  herself;  she  listens  to  no  one. 
Sometimes  she  sits  down  for  a  few  moments, 
but  never  when  we  ask  her.  I  am  so  sorry  to 
trouble  you  so  late  when  she's  not  actually 
ill." 

Arenberg  smiled  —  kindly. 

"  But  we  are  all  afraid  she  is  wearing  herself 
out  —  and  we  cannot  bear  to  see  her  like  this 


The  Garden  of  Eden  339 

—  we  are  so  fond  of  her,  you  know,  and  we 
are  quite  helpless." 

Tall,  with  a  white  and  wooden  countenance, 
and  clad  in  the  black  raiment  her  friends  had 
deemed  best  to  hang  upon  her,  hurrying  on 
with  her  burden  of  repressed  emotion,  alone 
as  in  the  hour  of  death,  this  was  not  the 
woman  whose  face,  fair  in  the  soft  western 
light,  and  illumined  by  the  inner  radiance  of 
gladness,  had  been  much  in  his  thoughts  since 
he  saw  it  last,  not  the  woman  whose  frank 
friendliness  had  done  him  good -in  a  sombre 
moment. 

Children,  he  reflected,'  sometimes  seem  un- 
conscious of  the  loss  of  the  dearest  mother, 
sometimes — rarely — are  utterly  desperate  for 
a  while.  But  he  had  never  seen  a  grown  per- 
son take  the  death  of  a  mother  so  wildly. 
Motionless,  with  cool  speculation  and  profes- 
sional interest  in  the  "  case,"  he  watched  her 
as  she  passed,  haggard,  unreasonable,  unre- 
conciled, and  remote.  There  was  more  here 
than  what  we  call  natural  sorrow,  far  more,  he 
thought.  It  was  some  passionate  grief,  long 
repressed  and  overcome,  breaking  forth  anew, 
let  loose  by  the  sudden  death. 

He  remembered  irrelevantly  all  the  heartless 
brainless  chatter  he  had  heard  about  Monica, 


34°  The  Garden  of  Eden 

with  which  indeed  he  had  had  no  patience. 
Nevertheless,  a  mildly  sceptical  curiosity  played 
across  the  surface  of  the  deep  personal  sym- 
pathy he  was  conscious  of  feeling  for  her,  as 
he  came  forward,  without  a  word  gently,  slipped 
his  arm  through  hers,  and  walked  with  her  own 
irregular,  hasty  step.  Monica,  without  stopping 
or  glancing  at  him,  involuntarily  tried  to  shake 
him  ofif  and  free  herself,  but  with  soft  inflexi- 
bility he  remained  at  her  side,  moving  with 
her  movement,  curbing  her  seemingly  not  at 
all  with  that  light  pressure  on  her  arm.  Yet 
Elizabeth  observed,  wondering,  that  the  rest- 
less pace  was  gradually  relaxing,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  it  became  deliberate.  Pres- 
ently Monica,  without  looking  at  this  near 
human  presence  which  had  dared  to  invade 
her  loneliness,  spoke  in  a  strained  voice,  and 
as  if  continuing  a  tale: 

"  And  so,  you  see,  it  was  all  in  vain  —  all  — 
all  in  vain." 

"  I  see,"  said  Arenberg,  as  he  walked  her  into 
her  bedroom  and  laid  her  on  her  bed. 

"  Undress  her  quickly,"  he  told  Elizabeth 
and  the  others. 

Returning  in  a  few  moments  he  found  her 
sitting  bolt  upright,  about  to  start  again  upon 
her  voyages. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  341 

"  Drink  this,"  he  said. 

It  was  warm  and  brown,  in  a  large  cup. 

She  pushed  it  away  but  he  held  it  to  her 
lips. 

"  Drink  it."     She  obeyed. 

"  I  tell  you  it  was  all  in  vain,"  she  cried  in 
a  tortured  voice,  searching  his  face  in  dry-eyed 
agony. 

"  Poor  child  !  "  said  Arenberg. 

"  Poor  child,"  echoed  Monica  strangely. 
"  Poor  child." 

"  Drink  this." 

It  was  a  clear  liquid  in  a  small  glass. 

He  laid  her  back  on  the  pillows.  Her 
strained  gaze  never  left  his  face.  Presently 
her  features  relaxed.  Some  other  part  of  her 
brain  began  to  work.  "  Angels  and  arch- 
angels," she  murmured,  her  eyes  looking 
straight  into  his  with  a  gleam  as  of  wondering 
recognition. 

"  What  does  she  say?  "  whispered  the  Frau 
Professor. 

"  English,"  answered  Arenberg  laconically. 

It  was  not  long  before  Monica  was  sleeping 
heavily. 

"You  did  it  so  quickly,"  Elizabeth  began 
gratefully,  shivering  slightly  and  with  tears  in 
her  eyes. 


342  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  It  was  so  simple,  yet  here  we  have  been 
troubling  her  incessantly.  '  Dear  Monica,  do 
lie  down.'  '  Please,  just  taste  this.'  Please 
thus  and  please  that,  Monica.  As  for  her 
bed,  I  began  to  think  she  scorned  the  straw- 
death  and  wanted  to  die  fighting,  and  be 
expressed  post  haste  to  Walhalla  — " 

"  Miss  Randolph  is  not  due  in  Walhalla  just 
yet.  She  is  very  strong  —  but  hard  hit." 

"  Yes,"  Elizabeth  replied,  helplessly. 

"  I  will  look  in  to-morrow,"  he  said  to  the 
Frau  Professor.  "  Miss  McCarroll,  you  must 
go  home  and  go  to  bed." 

"  I  'd  rather  not  leave  Monica." 

"  She  has  been  here  all  the  time,  resting 
hardly  more  than  Miss  Randolph,  only  dozing 
a  little  on  that  sofa." 

"  I  thought  as  much.  But  nothing  short  of 
the  last  trump  can  wake  Miss  Randolph  for 
some  hours  now.  Let  me  walk  over  with 
you." 

Elizabeth  was  so  consoled  by  his  gentle- 
ness that  she  prepared  a  reviving  speech  for 
Monica's  convalescence : 

"  If  that  angel  ever  asks  me  to' elope,  I  shall 
certainly  go." 

Arenberg  reaching  home  about  one  had 
still  some  letters  to  write,  and  on  his  desk  lay 


The  Garden  of  Eden  343 

his  little  boys'  dog-eared,  blotted  copy-books, 
Egon's  Greek,  Bodo's  Latin,  one  as  bad  as  the 
other,  as  if  their  thoughts  had  gone  a-fishing 
while  their  hands  insulted  the  grammar. 

"  Poor  little  scatterbrains  !  How  they  hate 
it !  "  and  he  patiently  made  his  crosses  and 
dots  and  marginal  notes,  that  the  boys  them- 
selves might  not  fail  to  find  their  mistakes. 
It  was  not  enlivening  occupation  for  a  weary 
man,  and  he  could  not  flatter  himself  that  they 
profited  much  by  it,  but  he  had  the  idea  it 
kept  him  more  in  touch  with  his  children  than 
he  otherwise  would  be. 

Twice  of  late  he  had  taken  them  into  the 
woods.  As  he  laid  the  books  aside  he  remem- 
bered with  a  smile  how  much  better  than  at 
Latin  were  the  little  fellows  at  counting  the 
cuckoo's  note  and  finding  salamanders.  As 
he  told  them  about  trees  and  plants,  they 
grew  almost  free  with  him.  Sometimes  it 
almost  seemed  as  if  they,  Bodo  especially, 
were  a  little  fond  of  him.  "  If  it  might  be," 
he  thought  longingly  —  "  if  it  might  be  —  a 
little  while." 

The  old  reproach  pulled  at  his  heart,  that 
he  neglected  them,  that  he  ought  to  find  more 
hours  for  them.  Alas,  how  could  he?  Well, 
he  ought,  even  if  he  could  not.  There  was 


344  The  Garden  of  Eden 

no  doubt  about  that.  A  still  older  reproach, 
vast,  nameless,  vague,  something  at  least 
which  he  did  not  always  frame  in  words,  and 
which  most  men  would  have  found  ludicrously 
morbid  and  absurd,  began  to  cloud  his  spirit. 
He  got  up,  breathed  deep,  and  pressed  his 
hand  on  his  heart.  "  This  is  pure  folly,  since 
I  cannot  undo  the  past."  The  light  fell 
strongly  on  the  chiselled  face  of  the  great 
ascetic.  Arenberg  looked  at  the  figure,  turned 
it  slowly  in  his  hands,  and  regarded  it  with 
uplifted  brows  and.  his  questioning  smile. 

"Brother  Benedict,  you  of  the  other  Fac- 
ulty, sometimes  I  think  your  wilderness  would 
be  a  relief,  and  as  for  penance,  there  are  many 
kinds  abundantly  provided  for  us  without  re- 
sorting to  the  cave,  the  scourge,  and  hair- 
cloth ;  for  instance,  neuralgic  gout  in  the  legs 
—  which  I  really  hope  you  had  not,  and  even 
an  unholy  man  like  me  may  quietly  contem- 
plate that  which  yawns  before  him.  A  good 
many  of  my  simplest  patients  do  as  much 
every  day.  Nevertheless,  Brother  Benedict, 
you  were  a  brave  fellow,  and  I  get  a  queer 
kind  of  silent  comradeship  from  you.  You 
in  your  quality  of  spirit  probably  would  an- 
swer that  whole  pile  of  letters  before  going 
to  bed.  I,  a  sinner,  shall  weakly  procrasti- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  345 

nate  as  usual,  take  a  dose  of  antifibrin,  and 
lay  my  bones  to  rest." 

"  All  in  vain,"  she  had  said.  What  had  the 
poor  girl  done  and  suffered  that  was  all  in 
vain?  His  thoughts  as  he  fell  asleep  were 
busy  with  her,  as  well  as  with  many  things 
which  he  each  sad  day,  in  his  private  life  and 
in  his  professional  experiences,  found  all  in 
vain.  In  the  narrow  field  of  his  personal 
observation  enough  indeed  seemed  of  ghastly 
inutility —  anguish  immeasurable,  concentrated 
in  many  an  innocent  life  for  the  doubtful  good 
of  brief  mortal  existence. 

But  his  innermost  conviction  of  the  reason 
governing  all  things,  his  faith  in  the  Mind  of 
the  universe,  the  noble,  unswerving  faith  of 
many  scientists  whom  the  sects  childishly  call 
infidels,  had  strengthened  with  every  year 
since  the  philosophical  spring  flood  of  his 
student  period,  and  had  sustained  him  in  his 
unequal  fight  with  disease  and  death.  Science 
had  led  him  indeed  away  from  theological 
dogma  and  through  that  season  of  dogmatic 
materialism  —  which  boys  have  strongly,  as 
when  younger  the  measles  —  yet  science  itself 
had  led  him  farther  on  and  on  into  lighter, 
loftier,  vaster  fields. 

With  a  deep  joy  in  Goethe  and  a  gentle 


346  The  Garden  of  Eden 

leaning  toward  Spinoza  —  these  influences  fil- 
tered through  his  own  modifying  personality 
—  he  possessed,  in  spite  of  his  modern  views, 
his  wise  insight  into  others'  physical  needs, 
an  habitual  disregard  for  his  own  bodily  dis- 
comfort as  preposterously  self-denying,  as 
gallantly  unwise,  and  as  sure  of  the  inevitable 
punishment  that  follows  every  transgression 
of  nature's  law,  as  the  starvation  and  flagella- 
tion of  the  great  and  good  St.  Benedict. 

Incredibly  patient  in  detail,  willing  and  dili- 
gent as  a  humble  artisan,  this  modern  ques- 
tioner's spiritual  nature  had  a  wide  and  lofty 
range.  In  an  earlier  age  he  would  have  seen 
sacred  visions  and  dreamed  mystic  dreams,  for 
everywhere  he  involuntarily  sought  divinity,  in 
the  smallest  leaf  as  he  scrutinized  its  tracery 
while  smiling  at  the  chatter  of  his  boys  in  the 
wood  —  every  appalling  combination  of  dis- 
ease before  which  he  stood  sad  and  helpless, 
forced  to  admit  that  one  vaunted  knowledge 
and  experience  as  yet  had  unveiled  but  little 
of  the  vast  and  elusive  mystery  of  nature. 

Beneath  all  these  inconsistencies,  if  such 
they  be  —  for  who  but  a  benighted  collector 
of  human  specimens  ever  found  a  pure  type, 
and  of  what  are  we  all  made  but  conflicting 
movements?  —  was  a  warm  temperament,  con- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  347 

scious  need  of  human  affection,  pre-eminently 
the  love  of  woman,  an  unsatisfied  craving  so 
great  that  he  half  regarded  it  as  a  weakness, 
submerged  it  in  work,  guarded  it  perfectly  with 
cool  tranquillity  of  manner — a  wise  precaution, 
indeed,  in  a  profession  before  which  perhaps 
more  than  in  any  other  humanity  drops  its 
mask.  The  cell,  the  scourge,  are  perhaps 
easier  for  a  man  to  bear  than  the  innocent 
embrace  of  some  simple  woman,  who,  prevari- 
cating in  shame,  at  last  shows  to  her  doctor 
the  welds  on  her  poor  back,  beaten  by  the 
drunken  brute  her  husband.  And  if  hearing 
gentle  words  of  pained  solicitude,  the  first 
perhaps  that  ever  met  her  ear,  she,  broken, 
bruised,  and  ill,  awaiting  soon  her  child,  puts 
up  sudden  soft  arms  like  a  child  and  sobs  in 
misery  upon  the  nearest  human  breast  —  who 
dare  condemn?  As  in  garrets,  so  in  boudoirs, 
for  though  bruises  be  of  many  colors,  the 
human  heart  is  one.  Yet  since  the  best  of 
us  are  but  mere  flesh  and  blood,  perhaps  if 
the  truth  were  known  it  is  not  so  remarkable 
that  now  and  then  human  nature  slips,  as  is 
duly  chronicled  with  copious  illustrations  in 
our  newspapers,  but  that  priests  —  of  all  per- 
suasions —  and  doctors,  and  lawyers,  who  also 
in  the  best  sense  may  be  doctors  and  priests 


348  The  Garden  of  Eden 

—  are  for  the  most  part  content,  in  spite  of 
their  confessionals  and  all  connected  therewith, 
to  be  simply  honest  men  with  not  the  remotest 
prospect  of  canonization. 

"  All  in  vain,"  repeated  Arenberg,  awaiting 
the  action  of  the  antifibrin  upon  his  neuralgic 
gout,  which  even  more  effectually  than  Macduff- 
reminiscences  murders  sleep.  "  All  in  vain." 
He  determined  to  help  her  to  regain  the  beau- 
tiful poise  she  had  lost.  He  believed  that  he 
understood  her,  was  akin  to  her,  whatever  the 
story  of  her  life.  After  a  few  hours'  sleep,  he 
was  under  the  impression  he  had  but  closed 
his  eyes  when  the  telephone  bell  jerked  him 
up,  at  half-past  five. 

What  passed  in  Monica,  no  one  knew.  Sud- 
denly inaccessible  to  affection,  unresponsive 
to  the  wistful  care  of  friends,  she  was  un- 
grateful, stolid,  and  dead  to  her  surroundings. 
Eleanor  might  offer  a  mute  caress,  the  touch 
of  cheek  or  lips  or  tearful  eyes  upon  her 
friend's  listless  hand.  She,  the  tender-hearted, 
paid  no  heed.  Eleanor  was  doing  all  her  work 
for  the  New  York  Panyphone,  the  Chicago 
Unicum,  and  The  Nosegay.  She  heard  this, 
like  all  else  they  said  to  her,  with  utter  in- 
difference. Beef-tea  and  the  other  obligatory 
potions,  she  swallowed  now  mechanically.  But 


The  Garden  of  Eden  349 

not  one  good  word  had  she  for  those  who 
loved  her  and  ministered  to  her  continually  — 
only  a  silent  stare. 

Mr.  Loring  came  in  every  day  and  looked 
at  her  mournfully;  poor  Lai  wrote  in  great 
remorse  for  his  bad  moods;  whole-hearted, 
manly  renewal  of  the  old  theme  came 
promptly  from  Mr.  Forsythe  in  Rome;  the 
Ehrensteins  hastened  to  her ;  flowers  and  kind 
messages  poured  in  en  masse,  and  people 
were  good  and  pitiful.  For  all  this  she  mani- 
fested the  thankfulness  of  a  log.  Remote, 
inert,  she  lay  for  the  most  part  quite  still,  but 
now  and  then,  like  a  wild  animal,  plunged  up 
and  down  her  cage  in  hopelessness. 

Such  was  her  exterior.  And  within?  Phi- 
losophers tell  us  there  is  no  such  thing  as  time 
or  space — Monica  was  merely  realizing  this 
truth.  In  her,  all  that  had  been  was.  While 
she  mourned  despairingly  for  her  mother,  all 
the  sorrow  that  had  gone  before  awoke  and 
lived:  every  pang  for  Lilian,  the  sombre, 
fateful  year  preceding  her  death  —  the  long 
strain,  the  pity,  and  the  dread.  And  Keith  • — 
Monica's  entire  relationship  to  him,  every  epi- 
sode, every  link  in  the  chain,  every  tone  and 
look,  each  dear  and  despairing  word,  sea  and 
starlight  and  storm,  whatever  had  been  near 


350  The  Garden  of  Eden 

them,  all  gathered  itself  together  for  the 
supreme  death  struggle.  And  the  mother 
that  was  coming  to  her  child  —  coming  to 
protect,  to  love,  to  bless;  coming  in  security, 
in  courage  and  joy,  with  plans  for  many  a  year, 

—  Ah,  God  !     How  she  stood  erect  in  the  sun- 
light and  smiled  as  the  steamer  moved  off! 

All  was  so  far  away.  Ages  ago  it  happened. 
Monica  was  adrift  forever,  on  a  shoreless  sea. 
There  was  nothing  more  to  reach,  nothing  more 
to  do.  No  aim.  No  haven.  No  hope.  Adrift. 
If  only  the  thoughts  would  be  still.  Since  all 
was  lost,  why  should  the  thoughts  rage  on? 
Black,  tumultuous,  singing  thoughts.  That 
was  why  she  could  not  speak,  although  she 
saw  Elizabeth  bending  over  her  with  a  tired 
face,  quite  a  new  face. 

The  thoughts  were  ceaseless.  They  were 
all  her  childhood,  all  her  past.  Winds  and  the 
waving  of  trees.  Foolish  things  and  sounds 
on  the  shore  —  shells  and  fleecy  clouds,  and 
her  mother's  every-day  sweet  words.  But 
mostly  troubled  thoughts  —  dark  —  unending 

—  throbbing.  Ah,  how  they  beat  and  throbbed ! 
How  they  rose  and  fell,  stormed  and  surged 
in  a  wild  waste  of  blackness  !     But  sometimes, 
when  suddenly  late  at  night  a  clear-cut   face 
bent  over  her  an  instant,  a  light  hand  touched 


The  Garden  of  Eden  351 

her  wrist,  her  forehead,  a  calm  voice  spoke  a 
few  low  words  that  all  obeyed,  it  seemed  as  if 
Hans  Nilssen  —  or  Nils  Hanssen  —  had  opened 
the  port-hole. 

The  days  wore  on,  and  she,  neither  well  nor 
ill,  neither  alive  nor  dead,  merely  something 
that  cumbered  the  ground,  was  the  despair  of 
her  friends. 

"The  same  apathy? "Dr.  Arenberg  asked 
every  day. 

"  Quite  the  same,"  was  the  stereotyped 
answer. 

They  took  her  out  to  drive.  It  was  in  the 
wonderful  month  of  May.  Sometimes  the 
sorrowing  heart  confronted  anew  by  the  ele- 
mental joy  of  nature,  although  deeply  touched 
by  a  thousand  reminiscences,  may  yet  feel  a 
certain  sad  and  remote  reconciliation  with 
gladness.  To  Monica  the  perfect  freshness  of 
leaf  and  blossom  might  have  been  gray  on 
gray. 

In  due  time  came  a  letter  from  Keith,  a 
good  letter,  anxious,  kind,  pitiful.  He  said  he 
had  done  all  that  was  possible  to  save  her 
mother;  he  had  seen  in  the  first  moment  it 
was  fatal ;  pneumonia  —  a  three  days'  illness : 
he  had  been  with  her  constantly,  like  a  son. 
Then  he  admitted  it  was  long  ago  in  response 


352  The  Garden  of  Eden 

to  her  prayer  that  he  had  gradually  discon- 
tinued the  correspondence,  and  that  he  had 
promised  her  never  to  resume  it.  Yet  he  too 
knew  well  this  was  best  for  Monica.  :j 

Even  this  letter  she  read  without  emotion, 
and  laid  aside  wearily.  It  was  the  first  letter 
from  Keith  she  had  not  welcomed  as  a  mes- 
sage from  on  high,  and  touched  and  fondled 
like  some  dear  living  thing.  What  could  words 
matter  now?  All  was  over. 

Judge  Trevor  wrote  her  also  with  his  own 
dear  old  trembling  hand.  His  letter  too  she 
read  with  quiet  and  dreary  mien.  Yet  one 
day  suddenly,  she  awakened  sufficiently  to  say, 
with  one  clear  glance,  quite  naturally,  to  Eliza- 
beth, who  had  been  patient  as  a  dog : 

"  Why  do  you  look  so  tired,  dear?  " 

At  this,  Elizabeth  dropped  on  the  floor,  laid 
her  head  against  Monica,  and  sobbed  violently. 
Monica  paid  no  more  heed,  being  used  to 
people  weeping  over  her,  but  to  Elizabeth  this 
was  a  crucial  moment. 

"  We  must  bring  her  back  to  earth,"  Aren- 
berg  said ;  but  it  was  many  weeks  before 
Monica's  true  self  reappeared.  The  automaton 
that  had  taken  her  place  lingered  obstinately. 

One  June  evening  she  lay  listless  in  her 
great  chair  when  Arenberg  came  in.  He 


The  Garden  of  Eden  353 

drew  a  chair  near  her,  sat  down,  looking  pale, 
with  a  luminous  but  not  sickly  pallor,  and 
scrutinized  her  carefully. 

"Do  you  know,  you  are  very  strong ?"  he 
began. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  indifferently. 

This  word  "  strong  "  had  pursued  her  like  a 
wasp,  and  in  earlier  days  she  hated  it.  When 
she  as  a  child  had  strained  every  nerve  like  a 
race-horse  to  win  some  prize,  and  had  won  it 
against  older  and  more  phlegmatic  competitors, 
they  always  said,  "  Monica  is  strong."  When 
she  stood  sturdily  day  and  night  by  some 
sufferer  whose  moans  and  whims  exhausted 
everybody  else,  they  always  chanted,  "  Mon- 
ica is  strong."  In  later  years  she  had  indeed 
become  reconciled  to  her  strength,  and  re- 
cognized its  use  and  wholesomeness. 

But  all  this  she  was  too  dull  and  too  apa- 
thetic to  remember  to-night,  so  she  simply 
said  yes,  and  looked  blankly  in  the  fine,  solici- 
tous face  regarding  her. 

"  How  long  do  you  intend  to  be  so  use- 
less? "  he  continued  quietly. 

She  said  nothing,  yet  something  stirred  in 
her  heart. 

"  Do  you  know,  your  friends  need  you?  " 

"  No  one  needs  me  any  more,"  she  mur- 
23 


354  The  Garden  of  Eden 

mured  languidly,  and  he  was  glad,  for  since 
she  had  begun,  if  faintly,  to  defend  herself, 
health  had  set  in. 

"  Elizabeth  needs  you." 

"  Ah,  Elizabeth,"  she  repeated  softly. 

"  We  all  need  you." 

She  closed  her  eyes. 

"  Good-night.  You  have  no  right  to  waste 
your  strength.  I  think  you  can  bear  every- 
thing." 

He  spoke  with  a  sort  of  stern  tenderness 
and  was  gone.  Toward  nine  o'clock  one  even- 
ing four  or  five  days  later,  calm  and  cool,  with 
his  air  of  having  more  time  at  his  disposal 
than  there  was,  he  came  again.  She  had  pond- 
ered idly  without  acting  upon  his  words.  He 
stood  looking  at  her  thoughtfully. 

"  I  am  tired,"  Monica,  curiously  enough, 
thought  fit  to  say  in  self-defence. 

"  I  hoped  I  should  find  you  at  work,"  he 
returned  simply,  "or  at  least  resting  from 
work." 

"  Ah  —  work,"  she  said  listlessly. 

"  It  is  a  good  thing,"  he  returned  with  his 
sweet  and  tranquil  voice.  "  It  is  often  the 
best  thing  we  have.  Is  it  not  time  to  relieve 
little  Eleanor?  She  is  less  strong  than  you," 
he  said  after  a  while,  mild  and  direct 


The  Garden  of  Eden  355 

She  sat  up  with  a  troubled  look. 

"  You  are  very  strong." 

"  Strong !  Strong !  "  she  repeated  bitterly. 
"Why  do  you  always  say  strong?  I  am 
weak.  I  am  only  a  leaf  in  the  blast.  If  you 
knew !  " 

He  did  not  reply,  but  sat,  his  arm  leaning  on 
a  table,  his  thoughtful,  compassionate  face 
bent  toward  her.  The  room  was  dim,  still, 
and  fragrant  with  roses. 

She  looked  in  that  face,  strong,  tender, 
beautiful  in  the  twilight,  and  contemplating 
her  silently.  As  if  constrained  by  some  oc- 
cult influence,  she  began  to  speak  low  and 
simply  the  thoughts  of  her  inmost  heart. 

Her  whole  life  story,  herself,  she  laid  before 
him.  Her  strong  emotions,  her  highest 
thoughts,  her  secret  motives,  her  faults  and 
weaknesses,  what  she  had  done,  what  she  had 
suffered,  found  expression  in  rapid  unstudied 
words,  reasonable,  fiery,  helpless,  brave,  and 
sad.  At  times  she  started  up  and  paced  the 
room;  at  times  she  stood  still,  then  returned 
to  her  place  near  him. 

Swayed  and  thrilled  by  the  woman's  voice, 
by  her  form  and  movements,  by  the  charm  of 
her  presence,  he  never  moved.  Picture  after 
picture  passed  before  him.  That  drama  in  a, 


356  The  Garden  of  Eden 

land  beyond  seas  became  his  own,  like  the 
most  homely  scenes  of  his  boyhood.  Her 
people  were  his  people,  he  saw,  he  heard,  he 
felt  with  them  all.  Her  griefs,  her  struggles, 
were  his.  And  he  knew  her  —  ah,  how  he  com- 
prehended her !  — better  far  than  she  knew  her- 
self, better  than  any  one  had  ever  known  her. 
There  was  a  trace  of  the  savage  in  this  dear 
woman,  something  elemental,  unsubdued,  and 
he  loved  it.  He  —  so  weary  and  so  tame.  It 
quickened  and  revived  him,  it  bathed  his  soul 
young  and  fresh.  He  could  have  gathered 
her  to  his  heart  and  held  her  close,  as  some- 
thing long  his  own,  always  his  own.  How 
strange  to  live  six-and-thirty  years  and  never 
to  find  his  own  until  this  night ! 

Monica's  confession  swept  on  without  bar- 
riers, without  reserve.  All  that  she  had 
guarded,  repressed,  buried  deep,  was  re- 
vealed —  her  heart's  tenderness,  her  spirit's 
revolt,  its  feebleness  on  its  lonely  path,  its 
search  for  spiritual  help,  its  longing  for  light, 
its  knocking  as  with  puny  but  importunate 
hand  at  the  mighty  and  mysterious  closed 
portals  of  nature.  Often  her  voice  was  the 
voice  of  his  own  heart,  more  disciplined, 
slightly  melancholy  and  sceptical.  Often  he 
marvelled  at  her  childlike  freshness  of  emo- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  357 

tion,  her  immense  warm  faith  in  humanity, 
at  a  certain  naive  and  reverential  attitude  in 
all  her  affections  —  these  traits  strong,  invin- 
cible, in  spite  of  her  struggles,  her  sorrows, 
and  the  gray  desolation  of  the  hour.  Monica 
spoke  lower,  slower,  finally  ceased.  It  seemed 
to  him  had  she  not  been  sacred  to  him,  it 
would  have  been  profanation  to  listen.  It 
was  that  rare  and  solemn  thing,  the  unveiling 
of  a  soul. 

The  room  was  shadowy,  fragrant,  and  still. 
His  head  was  bowed  upon  his  hand.  Monica 
leaned  back  motionless.  Some  minutes  passed 
in  silence.  Presently  Arenberg  rose  abruptly, 
as  was  his  wont. 

"  I  will  come  in  to-morrow,"  he  said  gently, 
holding  her  hand  an  instant,  but  an  influence 
subtle  as  the  twilight,  delicately  penetrating  as 
the  fragrance  of  the  roses,  encompassed  them, 
and  from  that  hour  she  was  no  longer  alone. 

The  next  morning  she  asked  Eleanor  for 
her  report  of  her  stewardship,  and  worked  a 
little  with  her,  listlessly.  As  they  sat  together 
Egon  and  Bodo  von  Arenberg  marched  in, 
Egon  with  a  letter  in  his  hand,  Bodo  with  one 
perfect  rose.  "  From  papa,"  the  little  boys 
said,  one  after  the  other,  stiffly,  and  looked 
shyly  at  her  under  their  thick,  dark  lashes. 


358  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Arenberg  merely  begged  her  to  excuse  him 
that  evening  as  he  was  called  out  of  town. 
His  thoughts  were  much  with  her,  he  said. 
That  was  all.  But  the  note  dispensed  with 
the  customary  forms,  had  no  beginning  and 
no  signature.  She  smiled  at  the  children, 
and  suddenly  for  an  instant  began  to  talk 
brightly  to  them,  like  her  old  self. 

It  was  some  days  before  he  came  again. 
His  first  glance  told  him  she  had  not  pro- 
gressed very  far.  He  found  her  still  and 
alone,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head, 
her  eyes  staring  at  nothing.  Yet  he  knew 
with  a  rush  of  keen  joy  as  she  looked  up  that 
he  was  not  unwelcome.  He  longed  intensely 
to  help  her  re-find  her  nobler  self;  so  far  as 
he  was  able  to  share  these  days  of  heaviness 
with  her;  vague  and  nameless  desires  floated 
before  him,  sentiments  of  tenderness,  devo- 
tion, pity ;  and  her  immense  charm,  weary  and 
helpless  as  she  seemed  at  the  moment,  moved 
him  mightily. 

He  sat  down  and  began  simply : 

"  Is  that  as  far  as  you  Ve  got?  " 

"  It  would  seem  so." 

"  It  is  not  very  far,  is  it?  "  he  said  with  a 
slight  smile.  "  A  baby  could  accomplish  as 
much." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  359 

"  Doubtless.    You  have  been  out  of  town?  " 

"  Frequently,  since  I  saw  you."  After  a 
while  he  said  suddenly:  "Shall  I  tell  you 
where?  Shall  I  tell  you  some  things  I  have 
seen  in  these  few  days?  May  I  speak  freely 
as  if  you  were  my  —  brother?  Not  as  we 
stupid  doctors  usually  speak?" 

"  Do,"  she  replied  with  more  interest. 

"  It  was  on  a  Sunday  evening  that  I  was 
here,  was  it  not?  Yes  —  to-day  is  Thursday. 
On  Monday  evening  late,  I  was  called  not  far 
from  here,  an  hour  by  rail,  in  consultation  to 
a  hopeless  case  —  a  woman  wholly  unrecon- 
ciled to  death,  who  must  leave  young  chil- 
dren. It  was  not  a  cheerful  experience.  On 
Tuesday  evening  at  four  I  went,  in  response 
to  a  telegram  that  had  arrived  Monday  even- 
ing, to  a  patient  also  in  a  neighboring  town. 
I  found  her  dead.  The  All-merciful  had  re- 
leased her  —  I  confess,  according  to  my  im- 
pertinent notion,  a  good  many  years  too 
late;  for  the  poor  thing  though  young  was 
a  chronic  sufferer,  and  rendered  unspeakably 
wretched  by  a  brute  of  a  husband,  one  of 
the  coarsest  and  most  selfish  of  men.  She 
has  known  almost  nothing  of  life,  except  its 
pain. 

"  That  same  afternoon  a  despatch  called  me 


360  The  Garden  of  Eden 

to  Wildbad.  There  I  found  a  beautiful  young 
woman,  vigorous  until  now,  fatally  ill.  A 
week  ago  she  became  a  mother  —  her  first 
child.  Some  bad  complications  have  set  in. 
She  is  doomed  to  speedy  death.  She  has 
everything  to  live  for,  the  world  would  say 
—  affection,  wealth,  social  position.  ...  I 
came  home  toward  one  o'clock.  Yesterday 
I  was  again  summoned  out  of  town  to  a 
patient  in  a  little  place  near  here  —  a  lovely 
young  girl,  a  pet  of  her  family  and  society, 
who  about  two  years  ago  became  engaged  to 
be  married  to  the  man  of  her  choice,  and 
then  —  suddenly  —  incurably  ill,  —  dying  now 
of  consumption,  which  is  a  curse  that  lurks  in 
the  blood  and  now  and  then  seizes  its  victim. 
But  I  will  not  continue  my  gloomy  chron- 
icle," he  added,  wondering  whether  he  was 
cruel  to  tell  her  these  things.  He  would 
have  tried  this  method  with  no  other  person, 
but  he  felt  from  the  first  that  if  he  read  clear 
in  her  soul,  a  straight  appeal  to  her  valor 
would  rouse  and  revive  her  more  than  all 
lamentations  and  soft  manipulations  on  earth. 
"  These  are  only  a  few  of  your  sisters,  not  far 
from  you  at  this  moment,"  he  concluded. 

She  watched  him  closely  as  he  spoke. 

"  Are  you  not  tired  ?  " 


The  Garden  of  Eden  361 

He  might  with  truth  have  answered  he  was 
never  anything  else. 

"  I  have  little  time  to  think  about  that,"  he 
returned  indifferently,  and  rose. 

"  Are  you  going — so  soon?  " 

"  I  am  rather  busy." 

Many  parallel  impressions  occupied  her: 
the  singularly  calm  beauty  of  his  face;  the 
anguish  of  all  these  innocent  women;  his 
goodness  to  her  and  his  dutifulness;  a  con- 
sciousness of  ingratitude,  unworthiness,  and 
torpor  from  which  she  ought  long  ago  to 
have  emerged  were  her  whole  being  not  so 
leaden;  the  sense  of  tears  in  the  heart  and 
throat  while  the  eyes  were  clear. 

Suddenly  she  asked  low : 

"Is  it  worth  while?" 

"  Ah,  you  know  it  is !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  if 
in  reproach  —  walked  away  a  few  steps,  re- 
turned, and  said,  his  face  splendidly  illumined 
and  inspired : 

"  Something  tells  me  daily,  and  with  a  thou- 
sand tongues,  that  all  this  anguish  is  tending 
toward  some  unimagined  good,  some  supreme 
and  eternal  end,  which  perhaps  even  we  earth- 
worms might  dimly  discern  if —  " 

Monica  drew  a  deep  breath.  This  was  the 
faith  to  which  she  had  clung,  until  she  lost  her 


362  The  Garden  of  Eden 

joy  and  hope.  This  recalled  old  sufferings, 
old  victories,  renunciation,  resignation,  peace, 
gladness,  and  triumph. 

"If?"  she  said.     "If?  —  " 

"  If  we  did  not  persist  in  clinging  to  the  illu- 
sion that  the  little  self  in  us,  the  ich,  the  ego, 
is  so  overweeningly  and  endlessly  important. 
That  is  the  lecture  I  often  have  to  give  myself. 
Forgive  me  that  I  dare  to  say  as  much  to 
you.  I  have  never  spoken  so  freely  to  any 
other  person." 

This  he  said  very  gently,  naturally,  as  he  did 
all  things,  without  a  trace  of  didactic  intent,  and 
with  his  good  clear  eyes  looking,  it  seemed  to 
her,  through  all  her  clouds  and  straight  into 
the  core  of  her  heart.  She,  troubled,  question- 
ing, appealing,  returned  his  long  gaze.  Sud- 
denly he  stooped  and  kissed  her  hands 
lingeringly. 

"Why  do  you  look  so  tired,  dear?"  she 
asked  Elizabeth  on  the  following  morning,  but 
this  time  regarded  her  attentively. 

"Oh,  Monica,  have  you  come  back?  You 
were  so  far  away  !  I  thought  you  were  never 
coming  back.  And  I  needed  you  so !  " 

Monica  could  hardly  realize  that  any  one  on 
earth  really  needed  a  creature  so  dull  and 
weighted  down  by  such  a  heartache.  But  the 


The  Garden  of  Eden  363 

memory  of  her  sisters  in  various  directions 
pursued  her,  and  would  not  let  her  sit  idle  and 
self-absorbed. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  dear,"  she  said. 

"Well,  Monica,  in  the  first  place,  I  want 
some  money." 

"How  much?"  Monica  started  up  to  get 
her  cheque-book. 

"  Never  mind  that  now.  That  is  all  right,  I 
know —  In  the  next  place,  life  is  rather  a 
nauseating  compound.  Monica,  have  you 
really  come  back?  Are  you  really  all  there? 
Because  if  you  are  in  the  Elysian  fields,  I  do 
not  care  to  talk.  I  never  wanted  to,  however, 
until  I  could  not  have  you.  That  is  my  con- 
trariness." 

"  I  have  really  come  back,  Elizabeth  —  such 
as  I  am  —  a  poor  thing." 

"  Well,  dear,  to  break  the  news  gently,  I 
nearly  eloped  with  Leo  Uhlefeldt,"  Elizabeth 
continued  in  a  hard  tone,  and,  in  spite  of  effort, 
a  mirthless  manner.  "  I  wavered  north,  I 
wavered  south.  All  the  time  you  acted  chlo- 
roformed. I  was  frantic.  It  seemed  to  me 
nobody  in  this  earth  cared  what  became  of  me. 
But  one  day  suddenly  —  it  was  the  fatal  day  — 
you  came  out  of  your  clouds,  and  looked  at 
me  with  sweet  good  eyes  and  asked  me  why  I 


364  The  Garden  of  Eden 

was  tired,  and  then  I  could  n't  leave  you,  you 
know." 

Monica's  heart  smote  her  a  more  vigorous 
and  healthy  blow  than  she  had  felt  in  many 
weeks. 

"  Of  course  that  would  not  have  held  me  if  I 
had  trusted  him  perfectly.  That  is  the  bitter 
part  of  it  all.  Trust?  Well,  he  is  honest  — 
was,  I  mean.  He  is  engaged  to  be  married  to 
Florence  Arco  at  this  present.  He  wanted 
even  to  give  up  his  career,  swore  he  'd  never 
regret  it.  You  know  how  the  idiots  go  on ! 
But  I  have  seen  too  much  of  life  not  to  know 
better.  Why,  they  draw  their  breath  for  the 
army,  would  be  miserable  out  of  it  and  away 
from  their  petty  local  society  and  court  life.  I 
don't  think  he'd  be  good  for  anything  else 
either.  He  has  absolutely  no  other  interests 
—  cares  not  a  straw  for  literature  or  art  or 
philanthropy,  or  any  other  fad.  Can  one  ruin 
such  a  man  outright?  I  am  so  awfully  fond  of 
him,  Monica,  all  the  same.  One  does  n't  know 
why  one  likes  a  man  —  not  for  his  Greek,  I 
presume.  But  I  know  Leo  too  well  to  ruin 
his  career  and  deprive  him  of  his  patrimony. 

"  He  has  a  modest  income  from  his  mother. 
That  is  what  we  were  going  to  live  on  in 
a  villa  —  and  a  cheap  one  —  on  the  Riviera, 


The  Garden  of  Eden  365 

according  to  his  rhapsodies.  I  told  him  he 
would  be  yawning  about  the  house  in  slippers 
and  dressing-gown  before  three  months  were 
gone,  and  I  could  n't  stand  that  sort  of  thing 
an  instant.  Imagine  him,  of  all  men,  trying 
to  economize  !  The  old  baron  told  me  once 
to  my  face,  blandly,  of  course,  as  if  the  subject 
were  but  remotely  important,  that  if  Leo 
should  ever  marry  imprudently  he  would  not 
inherit  a  penny  of  the  fortune  that  would  other- 
wise fall  to  him.  The  old  baron,  by  the  way, 
has  been  very  adroit.  You  have  seen  enough 
yourself,  Monica.  When  he  wanted  to  obtain 
anything  of  Leo  the  old  man  was  nice  to 
me,  and  kept  me  prettily  dangling,  while  Flor- 
ence Arco  has  been  slowly  emerging  from  the 
nursery. 

"Well,  it  has  gone  on  four  years  now.  Leo 
was  determined  to  win  his  father  over.  I  have 
understood  his  tactics  very  well.  They  made 
me  furious  at  times  —  and  nervous  and  detest- 
able, which  is  no  news  to  you.  Still,  Leo 
hoped  —  and  I  too  —  I  was  so  fond  of  him. 
Lately  the  old  baron  has  brought  on  his  heavy 
artillery,  promised  Leo  a  new  racer,  a  doubled 
allowance,  and  heaven  knows  what  baubles,  if 
he  would  cease  his  dallying,  be  a  sensible  fel- 
low, and  engage  himself  to  Countess  Florence. 


366  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Leo  flies  to  me.  We  enact  scenes  that  would 
draw  tears  from  a  glass  eye.  It  is  a  pity  you 
could  not  have  reported  them  for  The  Pany- 
phone.  He  begs,  weeps,  swears,  goes  down 
on  his  knees,  threatens  to  blow  his  brains  out, 
all  of  which  inspires  no  confidence  in  my  rattle- 
pate,  and  I  jeer ;  then  suddenly  he  is  so  sure  of 
himself,  so  persuasive  and  so  manly,  I  almost 
yield.  Whereupon  I  say  something  quite  hate- 
ful and  send  him  off  half  beside  himself. 

"  It  went  on  in  this  fashion  until  I  could  bear 
it  no  longer  —  the  old  baron  continually  at 
him,  he  at  me  —  and  I  'm  fond  of  Leo,  you 
know,  Monica,  awfully  fond  of  him  —  and 
finally  I  thought  it  did  not  much  matter  about 
me,  and  perhaps  I  might  as  well  go  —  to  the 
dogs  —  to  the  cheap  villa,  I  mean  —  though  I 
could  n't  ruin  his  whole  life  by  marrying  him. 
That  was  the  day  you  looked  at  me  as  if  you 
loved  me,  and  held  me  back.  I  met  him  that 
night,  and  said  something  altogether  insulting. 
The  next  day  he  became  engaged  to  Florence 
Arco." 

Brusquely,  softly,  at  times  against  her  will, 
she  related  her  experience.  Monica  listened 
in  silence. 

"Nauseous,  is  it  not,  Monica?  And  so  su- 
perfluous !  In  the  first  place,  why  need  I  be 


The  Garden  of  Eden  367 

fond  of  him?  I  have  been  fond  of  other  men, 
half  a  dozen,  more  or  less:  more,  I  fancy. 
One  forgets.  In  sentimental  songs  a  woman 
loves  once.  But  nature  has  made  no  remarks 
on  this  subject,  I  believe.  Nature  is  not  senti- 
mental. And  the  poets?  Never  mind  what 
they  say.  Just  watch  what  they  do.  If  you 
find  the  one  and  he  finds  you,  that  is  luck. 
But  if  you  do  not,  you  make  your  little  tenta- 
tive excursions.  Men  tell  us  we  are  womanly 
when  we  love  but  once.  Men !  They  have 
told  us  a  lot  of  things  to  make  life  comfortable 
for  themselves. 

"  Monica,  I  don't  mean  to  excuse  myself.  I 
have  knocked  about  a  good  deal,  you  know. 
That  is  what  happens  when  you  are  an  orphan, 
have  red  hair  and  three  uncles.  Instead  of 
finding  the  one,  I  was  always  finding  some  other 
woman's  one.  I  never  went  to  stay  a  few  days 
in  a  country  house  but  somebody  left  in  tears 
—  I,  or  somebody  else,  it  matters  little  which. 
My  hair,  I  suppose !  I  loved  once  and  forever 
when  I  was  sixteen ;  twice  and  forever  at  seven- 
teen and  a  half;  thrice  and  forever  shortly 
after.  They  all  married  rich  girls.  I  never 
met  very  good  men  —  not  very  bad,  but  not 
good,  mediocre.  I  never  met  a  woman  I 
trusted  until  I  knew  you  —  not  bad  women, 


368  The  Garden  of  Eden 

but  conventional,  cowardly,  mediocre.  I  think 
I  Ve  not  done  anything  very  bad,  but  heedless, 
reckless,  stupendously  rash  things  without 
number.  Mean  ?  Well,  I  don't  know ;  rather 
malicious,  when  women  were  n't  nice  to  me. 
My  uncles  wished  me  to  study,  and  write  or 
teach.  Now  I  have  no  talent  for  consecutive 
study,  no  patience  with  children,  no  pedagogic 
skill.  That  you  must  admit.  It  occurred  to 
me  one  day  that  I  would  take  Rob  and  my 
voice  to  Germany,  live  quietly,  and  work.  I 
began  to  think  there  must  be  something  in  life 
beyond  futile  love-making.  My  uncles,  relieved 
to  get  rid  of  me,  deigned  to  consent  to  concerts, 
but  plainly  opposed  the  stage.  From  one  to 
the  other  the  step  is  easy.  There  you  have 
me,  Monica,  life  size." 

Still  Monica  bowed  her  head  and  did  not 
speak. 

"Are  you  disgusted?  I  don't  wonder.  I 
am  often  enough  with  myself.  But,  Monica, 
sometimes  I  think  it  would  be  fair,  should  they 
try  me,  to  recommend  me  to  mercy.  Because, 
you  see,  if  you  give  a  girl  my  musical  tempera- 
ment, my  imprudence,  my  tongue,  my  good 
family,  my  luxurious  tastes  and  no  money,  and 
set  her  rolling  about  this  planet,  well,  she 
might  do  better,  but  she  might  do  worse  than 


The  Garden  of  Eden  369 

I  have  done  so  far.  And  what  makes  me 
wicked  is  to  see  how  holy  the  girls  feel  whose 
mothers  marry  them  off  well,  girls  who  have 
no  temperaments,  or  tongues,  or  red  hair,  and 
to  whom  men  don't  make  love  except  on  a  good 
commercial  basis.  What  does  marriage  mean 
between  Leo  and  Florence  Arco?  He  cannot 
endure  her.  He  said  he  would  rather  marry  a 
frog.  Oh,  Monica,  speak  !  Think  aloud.  Ex- 
cept Rob,  I  like  nobody  but  you.  Don't  give 
me  up.  I  believe  in  you.  If  you  should  de- 
ceive me,  I  never  would  believe  in  any  soul 
again.  Oh,  Monica,  I  'm  fond  of  him,  you 
know !  —  even  if  you  think  I  have  monkey- 
manners." 

She  flung  herself  down  and  pressed  her  face 
against  Monica's  knees,  who  clasped  her  close 
and  sought  but  found  no  words,  and  felt  as  if 
she  were  born  again.  She  had  indeed  been 
born  many  times  during  this  one  sojourn  on 
this  planet.  New  suns  of  glory  were  con- 
tinually dawning  upon  her.  But  that  this  rev- 
elation should  have  come  from  Elizabeth ! 
Elizabeth ! 

"  Speak  to  me  !  "  she  said  imperiously. 

Monica  kissed  the  naughty  red  hair  upon 
her  knee. 

"You  make  me  ashamed,  Elizabeth,  you 
24 


370  The  Garden  of  Eden 

are  so  much  better  than  I.  There  have  been 
sad  and  hard  things  in  my  life..  Each  time  I 
thought  there  was  nothing  harder.  But  I  had 
great  loving  friends.  All  the  time  you  were 
speaking,  I  realized  that  if  ever  I  should  go  to 
heaven  —  not  the  vast,  glorious  heaven  whither 
we  are  all  bound,  whether  we  will  or  no,  but 
the  little  cooped-up  heaven  they  used  to  teach 
us  —  it  would  be  only  by  clinging  to  the  skirts 
of  my  friends.  I  was  always  surrounded  by 
pure  and  strong  influences.  You  never  had 
them." 

"  I  should  say  not !  "  muttered  Elizabeth. 

"  It  is  wonderful  what  friends  can  do  !  They 
bear  one  over  abysses  and  mountain  peaks ! 
When  I  thought  I  was  acting  —  I,  myself — 
I  see  now  I  was  propped  up  on  all  sides, 
pushed  along.  I  have  been  only  a  weak'  re- 
flection of  my  friends.  But  you  have  been 
good  all  alone.  You  have  had  no  help,  no 
inspiration." 

"  Precious  little,  if  the  truth  were  known. 
Contamination  chiefly,"  murmured  the  voice 
on  her  knee.  "  No  upward  road  toward  the 
peak.  All  aboard  for  the  bottomless  pit.  The 
way  nicely  cleared  by  the  men  who  make  hot 
love  to  the  poor,  pretty  girls,  and  marry  the 
ugly  rich  ones.  Don't  give  me  up,  Monica !  " 


The  Garden  of  Eden  371 

"  I  will  never  give  you  up  while  I  live,  but 
don't  give  me  up !  You  make  me  unspeak- 
ably ashamed.  I  am  inert  and  selfish,  and  I 
ought  to  be  glad  —  glad  all  the  time  !  If  you 
could  know  what  you  rebuke  in  me,  what  you 
call  forth !  " 

For  into  Monica's  heartache  came  a  great 
warmth  and  glow,  and  her  sadness  was  suffused 
by  a  tender  exaltation.  She  divined  that  she 
still  possessed,  could  lose  in  all  eternity  neither 
her  mother  nor  Keith,  neither  Lilian  nor  any 
other  precious  one,  and  that  though  the  yearn- 
ing and  ache  in  the  heart  must  be,  the  joy  of 
it  all  ought  to  dominate  her  life  continuously, 
and  shine  forth  from  it.  What  would  she  have 
been  without  her  friends?  Her  course  was 
straight  before  her — to  prove  herself  no  das- 
tard, ingrate,  not  all  unworthy  of  the  love 
of  so  brave  souls.  But  these  things  are  not 
easy  to  say  in  words,  so  she  put  her  hands  on 
Elizabeth's  head  and  looked  down  at  it  as  one 
looks  when  one  smiles  through  unshed  tears 
and  the  heart  swells  and  aches,  and  glories  all 
at  once  —  and  in  that  instant  she  vowed  some 
vows  which,  according  to  her  strength,  she 
kept. 

"  Little  Bishop !  "  mumbled  Elizabeth. 
"  Monica,  you  need  n't  take  me  too  seriously. 


372  The  Garden  of  Eden 

I  am  as  light  as  a  feather.  I  'm  not  like  you. 
I  have  no  depth  of  emotion." 

"  That,  no  one  can  judge." 

"When  one  considers  my  undying  despair 
at  sixteen,  and  my  ditto  at  seventeen  and  a 
half—  " 

"Accidents  of  your  condition  —  not  you, 
yourself." 

After  a  long  pause,  the  very  indistinct  voice 
said: 

"  Monica,  do  you  understand  me?" 

"Yes." 

"  That  I  really  wanted  to  run  away  to  that 
cheap  villa?" 

"Yes." 

"  That  I  was  ready  to  fling  away  the  world 
—  respectability  —  even  Rob  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Monica,  do  you  understand  —  everything  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  everything." 

A  long  silence. 

"Then  write  a  nice  cheque  for  me  —  for  I 
want  to  go  away  until  the  nefarious  wedding 
is  over,"  Elizabeth  said,  looking  up  suddenly 
with  a  wicked  sparkle  in  her  eye.  "  I  Ve  had 
to  get  a  lot  of  things  for  Rob,  and  I'm  too 
poor  at  the  moment  to  play  magnanimity.  I 
want  to  run  over  to  England,  dumfound  my 


The  Garden  of  Eden 


373 


uncles,  sing  in  some  country  houses,  and  make 
arrangements  for  concerts  next  season.  You  'd 
better  get  me  off  without  much  delay.  I  am 
not  to  be  depended  upon  an  instant — nor  is 
he  —  and  I  suppose  it  is  the  fair  thing  now  to 
give  the  little  sheep  a  chance." 

Arenberg  perceived  at  a  glance  that  evening 
that  Monica's  lethargy  had  yielded  to  an  ex- 
pression both  serene  and  alert,  as  if  she  were 
ready,  like  a  good  soldier,  to  take  life's  orders, 
and  this  touched  him,  for  he  understood  her. 

"You  have  not  been  out  except  to  drive? 
How  would  you  like  to  take  a  walk?  It  is  a 
perfect  night." 

"  I  should  like  that.  How  good  you  are  to 
me!" 

He  looked  at  her  an  instant,  thinking : 

"  How  I  wish  I  might  be  good  to  you ! 
How  good  I  could  be  to  you,  how  unutterably 
good  !  "  but  said  : 

"  If  you  will  pardon  an  abject  confession, 
so  prosaic  that  only  a  hardened  doctor  could 
mention  such  a  thing  to  a  lady  on  a  moon- 
light night  in  June,  a  pack  of  imps  inhabit 
my  legs,  —  on  a  long  lease,  I  suspect,  —  and 
a  walk  at  night  sometimes  disconcerts  them, 
and  encourages  me.  So  I  am  not  wholly 
disinterested." 


374  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  I  should  think  you  would  have  exercised 
enough,"  she  said  practically,  as  they  started. 

"  Oh,  I  prance  about  a  good  deal,  of  course, 
but  it  is  nervous  business;  and  whatever  the 
reason,  a  good  walk  with  no  professional 
object  in  view  is  my  best  tonic." 

This  was  quite  true,  and  what  he  called  his 
imps  caused  him  fiendish  torture;  but  as  he 
felt  her  near,  so  fair,  kind,  and  desirable,  his 
talk  seemed  paltry.  Why  should  he  take 
pains  to  prevaricate?  Why,  contrary  to  his 
habitual  reserve,  bore  her  of  all  people  with  the 
insignificant  mutiny  of  his  miserable  nerves? 
Why  might  he  not  tell  her  that  she  was  beau- 
tiful, dear,  and  harmonious  to  him,  to  soul  and 
sense?  That  his  heart  ached  strangely  for 
her,  and  he  counted  as  lost  every  day  he  did 
not  see  her  face?  That  she  rested  him,  —  her 
ways,  her  voice,  her  whole  sweet  being,  —  yet 
created  in  him  a  powerful  and  profound  un- 
rest, and  set  him  mourning  for  his  lost  years, 
for  all  the  empty,  weary,  sorrowful  years? 
Why  might  he  not  say  an  imperious  longing, 
the  hungry  desire  of  a  long-famished  heart, 
had  impelled  him  to  seek  her  and  to  brave  the 
perilous  sweetness  of  her  near  presence  at  his 
side,  alone  with  him  in  the  still  night?  Why 
might  he  not?  Ah,  why?  Silent,  sad,  tor- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  375 

mented,  and  blessed,  he  walked  on  with  his 
peaceful  air. 

In  that  town  any  straight  way,  if  pursued 
long  enough,  led  to  noble  heights;  broad 
roads,  winding  paths,  short  cuts,  were  cared 
for  with  the  solicitude  of  that  tiresome,  exas- 
perating yet  often  beneficent  institution,  a  pa- 
ternal form  of  government.  Its  frailties  were 
many,  but  it  had  the  grace  of  admirable  for- 
estry and  rich  gardens,  like  unto  Paradise  re- 
gained and  handled  according  to  best  modern 
methods. 

Monica  walked  slowly  at  first  for  she  had 
been  long  indoors;  but  as  they  passed  through 
quiet  streets  and  began  the  long,  fragrant 
ascent,  past  villas  and  walled  gardens,  she  felt 
her  strength  return,  and  consciously  loved  the 
night,  its  tender  mystery,  its  subtle,  elusive 
beckoning.  The  bright  day  they  had  taken 
her  out,  with  its  wealth  of  blossom  and  odor, 
its  laburnums  and  lilacs  and  syringa,  had 
seemed  remote.  But  this  fair  night  was  home ; 
it  comforted. 

They  stood  side  by  side  on  a  dusky  height, 
leaned  on  a  wall,  and  looked  down  upon  the 
town  in  the  valley.  The  blooding  forest  be- 
hind them,  the  luminous  yet  mist-veiled  night, 
the  balm  of  orchard  and  meadow,  the  whole- 


376  The  Garden  of  Eden 

some  breath  of  distant  farms,  penetrated  them 
with  large  and  beneficent  influence. 

Long,  low  black  rifts  stretched  along  the 
horizon,  merging  in  sombre  thickly  wooded 
hills.  Over  the  town  hung  a  gray  smoky 
cloud  through  which  the  lights  gleamed  dully. 
A  rash  soft  brook  tumbled  on  inconsequently. 
Frogs  far  and  near  held  council.  Roses, 
acacia,  and  pungent  honeysuckle  impregnated 
the  atmosphere.  The  night  was  so  still  even 
the  poplar  leaves  above  their  heads  had  ceased 
their  prophetic  rustling.  Down  the  steep 
slope  of  the  broad  highroad  near  them  now 
and  then  a  bicycle  bell  tinkled  gayly,  and 
lovers  passed,  arms  interlaced,  and  voices  in- 
termingled low  and  warm  in  sweet  folk  song. 

Arenberg  had  taken  off  his  hat.  His  face, 
as  he  leaned  on  folded  arms  and  gazed  with 
thoughtful  eyes  not  at  the  town  but  straight 
before  him  into  the  night,  was  clear  and  calm 
and  of  almost  unearthly  beauty.  Monica 
remembered  these  words :  "  His  soul  is  still. 
Like  a  holy  treasure  he  guards  its  repose  and 
from  its  depths  draws  counsel  and  help  for  the 
storm-tossed."  It  was  good  for  her,  the  storm- 
tossed,  to  be  with,  him  here.  He  turned  and 
looked  at  her,  and  she  smiled  wistfully  but  in 
confidence,  in  naturalness,  with  tender  thank- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  377 

fulness  and  with  a  nameless  sentiment  without 
which  she  never  yet  had  looked  and  never 
again  could  look  upon  his  face,  a  touched 
recognition  of  his  goodness,  reverence  for  a 
being  who  had  reached  through  suffering  and 
knowledge  a  higher  spiritual  plane.  That  smile 
was  hard  for  him  to  bear. 

"  How  inexplicable  it  is  that  people  prefer 
to  stay  in  their  boxes  on  such  a  night!"  he 
said.  "  I  wonder  that  the  whole  town  does  n't 
come  up  on  the  hills.  Not  that  I  am  benevo- 
lent enough  to  want  a  lot  of  fellows  about  here 
at  the  moment;  but  they  don't  know  what 
they  lose." 

They  were  not  far  from  the  spot  where 
Monica  had  stood  alone  when  she  first  knew 
of  Professor  Steiner's  death.  At  last  she  could 
share  that  sad  burden.  In  her  heart,  in  her 
life,  was  nothing  which  she  could  not  lay  before 
this  friend.  She  told  him  she  would  like  to 
explain  to  him  the  singular  chain  of  events 
which  had  preceded  that  tragedy. 

"  You  never  need  explain  yourself  to  me,'' 
he  replied,  "but  the  smallest  thing  that  con- 
cerns you  interests  me.  That  wretched  affair 
occupied  me  not  a  little." 

Then  he  told  her  how  he  had  stood  beneath 
her  windows  that  night  long  since,  and  she 


378  The  Garden  of  Eden 

mentioned  that  she  got  as  far  as  his  threshold, 
and  they  looked  at  each  other,  moved  and 
wondering. 

In  the  soft,  mysterious  night,  with  gentle, 
regretful  voice,  she  related  briefly  the  salient 
features  of  the  story.  As  she  concluded,  he 
was  silent,  looking  far  away.  Because  her 
wounds  were  not  yet  healed,  and  she  had 
suffered  so  cruelly,  and  relating  the  facts  awoke 
the  old  pain,  she  waited  in  strange  suspense. 

He  was  merely  thinking  how  brave  and  good 
she  was,  and  how  alone,  and  of  certain  things 
he  would  do  that  instant  if  he  might.  But  a 
sudden  terror  seized  her. 

"  Do  you  not  believe  me?  "  she  said. 

"As  in  a  god,"  said  Arenberg,  low  and 
fervently,  and  neither  of  them  observed  that  it 
was  a  singular  answer. 

Relieved,  she  rejoined  simply: 

"  Then  I  should  like  you  to  read  the  letters." 

Again  they  stood  in  silence  side  by  side, 
needing  no  speech,  their  thoughts  floating  off 
together.  Each  marvelled  at  the  peace  of  the 
night  and  the  suggestion  of  the  infinite.  Each 
dwelt  upon  the  mystery  of  pain  and  life's 
demands  upon  our  poor  strength.  Each  felt 
the  other  near.  In  Monica's  sorrow  was  a  new 
strain  of  submission.  "  You  can  bear  every- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  379 

thing,"  he  had  said  to  her.  Perhaps  one  could 
bear  everything.  Her  heart  was«full  of  simple, 
childish  memories,  —  her  mother's  smile ;  her 
hands ;  and  her  little  ways ;  her  jests  and  gayety ; 
how  she  wore  her  hair;  the  kind  of  lace  she 
liked ;  the  odor  of  attar  of  roses  in  her  upper 
drawer.  A  flood  of  light  filled  the  valley. 
The  dark  hills  stood  guard.  The  earth  looked 
like  a  sanctuary. 

Softly  as  to  himself,  Arenberg  spoke : 

"  Ueber  alien  Gipfeln 
1st  Ruh ; 
In  alien  Wipfeln 
Spiirest  du 
Kaum  einen  Hauch ; 
Die  Voglein  schweigen  im  Walde. 
Warte  nur,  balde 
Ruhest  du  auch  !  " 


380  The  Garden  of  Eden 


XIV 

"  I  SHOULD  certainly  interfere  in  some  way, 
Melanie  ?  "  Frau  Selbitz  said  sharply. 

"  It  is  easy  to  tell  the  wonderful  things  you 
would  do ! "  replied  Frau  von  Arenberg,  with 
irritation.  The  familiar  tone  between  the 
sisters  was  not  always  suave,  but  they  were 
apt  to  unite  against  a  common  enemy. 

"I  can  assure  you,  if  it  were  my  Her- 
mann — "  Frau  Selbitz'  eyes  snapped  as  if 
she  had  discovered  her  complaisant  spouse  in 
flagrant  dereliction. 

"  Oh,  Hermann  ! "  exclaimed  her  sister,  not 
with  marked  deference.  "  Hermann  and  Aurel 
are  very  different.  You  yourself,  Orla,  can 
do  nothing  with  Aurel." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  At  all  events, 
I  shall  not  hesitate  to  speak  with  him.  I 
shall  tell  him  it  is  ridiculous." 

"  I  am  sure  I  am  willing.  It  is  ridiculous 
—  and  exasperating.  A  serious  man,  a  profes- 
sional man,  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself. 
On  the  contrary,  he  acts  so  serene  it  is  quite 


The  Garden  of  Eden  381 

maddening.  One  might  suppose  they  lived 
in  the  Happy  Isles,  if  that  is  the  place  where 
people  do  as  they  like,  with  no  regard  for 
public  opinion.  He  sends  Egon  or  Bodo 
with  a  flower,  or  letter,  or  book  in  really  the 
most  barefaced  manner.  Her  letters  come 
straight  to  the  house  as  if  I  were  air.  I 
don't  know  what  they  mean  by  it.  In  any 
little  affair,  a  woman  who  respects  herself 
takes  the  trouble  to  save  appearances.  You 
need  n't  laugh  so  maliciously,  Orla.  I  'm 
sure  you  manage  prudently  enough." 

"And  you,  Melanie?  Except,  perhaps,  on 
one  occasion." 

Frau  Selbitz  discussed  the  painful  circum- 
stance, in  confidence,  with  a  few  chosen 
friends.  She  stated  to  each  that  she  was  dis- 
tressed on  dear  Melanie' s  account,  and  merely 
wished  advice;  of  course  it  was  a  delicate 
matter. 

With  a  volley  of  sparkles  and  smiles,  she 
asked  Baron  Baretinsky  what  he  really  thought 
about  it;  if  he  believed  in  platonic  affection. 
He,  speaking  with  authority,  declared  there 
was  no  such  thing.  Besides,  when  a  quiet, 
steady  fellow  like  Arenberg  decided  to  make 
a  fool  of  himself  about  a  woman,  he  was  apt 
to  get  more  entangled  than  a  man  who  had 


382  The  Garden  of  Eden 

kept  himself  well  in  practice.  Baretinsky 
stroked  his  tawny  moustache.  He  was  in- 
clined to  think  they  did  not  discuss  the  im- 
mortality of  the  soul  quite  all  the  time. 
Then  Miss  Randolph  certainly  had  queer 
notions.  For  instance,  she  actually  once 
asked  him,  etc.,  etc.  Not  that  he  took  it 
amiss.  A  man  never  takes  anything  amiss 
that  a  charming  woman  says  —  and  Miss 
Randolph  was  a  very  charming  woman. 
Arenberg  was  a  lucky  dog.  Lobanow  would 
envy  him.  Lobanow  himself  had  a  decided 
faible  in  that  direction.  By  the  way,  he, 
Baretinsky,  had  made  a  little  conundrum, 
"Who  wears  Lobanow's  fresh  linen?"  The 
two  being  good  friends  of  Baron  Lobanow, 
and  that  gentleman  being,  now  and  then,  of 
a  morning,  eccentrically  regardless  of  his 
toilet,  vast  was  the  mirth  that  ensued;  and 
pyrotechnic  display  of  smiles  and  teeth,  and 
glittering  black  eyes,  and  admiring  interjec- 
tions, and  fascinating  fidgets  had  no  end. 

Frau  Selbitz  next,  at  Count  Arco's  one 
evening,  approached  Lobanow  with  some  cir- 
cumspection and  an  inward  gleam  of  malicious 
delight.  She  had  spoken  with  Baron  Bare- 
tinsky, but  of  course,  amiable  as  he  was,  it 
must  be  confessed  he  seemed  a  little  super- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  383 

ficial  in  comparison  with  really  intellectual 
men.  Here  she  sparkled  and  fidgeted  with 
much  animation;  but  Lobanow  for  some 
reason  was  moody.  She  feared,  she  greatly 
feared  Arenberg  was  seriously  interested  in 
that  Miss  Randolph  who  had  such  a  bad  rec- 
ord —  poor  Professor  Steiner  —  that  was,  she 
knew,  a  positive  fact  —  and  young  Forsythe 
of  the  British  Legation,  and  Count  This,  and 
Captain  That,  and  Lieutenant  the  Other. 
She  was  on  the  best  terms  with  those  com- 
mon men  in  the  editorial  rooms,  which  was 
rather  queer  and  Bohemian,  was  it  not? 
That  old  Mr.  Loring,  who  had  an  invalid 
wife,  was  continually  running  after  her.  Of 
course  one  could  think  what  one  liked  about 
that.  As  to  the  Ehrensteins,  they  were,  it 
seemed,  very  attentive  and  friendly  with  her, 
but  it  probably  would  not  last.  Melanie  was 
behaving  like  a  saint.  One  could  speak  of 
such  a  thing  only  to  an  old  friend  like  Loba- 
now, but  really  Arenberg  was  quite  infatu- 
ated. People  wondered  a  good  deal  about 
Miss  Randolph's  lights.  They  burned  so 
late.  Nobody  knew  why. 

"I  presume  because  Miss  Randolph  can- 
not see  in  the  dark ; "  and  Baron  Lobanow, 
looking  very  clever  and  distinguished,  in- 


384  The  Garden  of  Eden 

clined  himself  slightly  before  the  little  lady, 
whose  neck  at  that  instant  he  could  have 
wrung  with  rapture,  and  moved  off. 

Like,  yet  unlike  the  gentle  breeze  that 
stirs  the  stiff  hollyhock  stalk,  and  kisses 
the  opening  rose,  and  flutters  the  vine  leaves, 
and  caresses  the  lily,  Orla  Selbitz  fulfilled 
her  mission. 

Madame  Baretinsky,  speaking  with  author- 
ity, instructed  her  that  it  was  a  great  mistake 
to  make  a  fuss  —  and  so  useless.  "Tell  your 
sister  to  take  no  notice,  and  to  order  specially 
nice  entries.  Besides,  it  may  be  all  imagina- 
tion. Have  you  happened  to  notice  Aren- 
berg's  eyes?  You  can  always  detect  it  in 
their  eyes.  Sascha  shows  it  instantly  in  the 
eyes."  She  spoke  as  if  love  were  a  light  and 
frequent  form  of  influenza. 

At  the  Arcos  the  venomous  breeze  found 
an  inviting  field.  The  countess  made  her 
habitual  protestation  that  she  could  not  be 
expected  to  countenance  the  eccentricities  of 
all  Americans  abroad.  She  thought  Miss 
Randolph  had  already  made  herself  sufficiently 
conspicuous.  What  with  Professor  Steiner, 
and  Mr.  Forsythe,  and  Baron  Lobanow,  and 
that  infatuated  old  Mr.  Loring,  not  to  speak 
of  his  son,  and  This  and  That  and  the 


The  Garden  of  Eden  385 

Other,  it  was  really  getting  rather  too  varie- 
gated. And  now,  Arenberg !  Arenberg !  It 
was  incredible.  They  regarded  one  another 
with  virtuous  horror.  Count  Arco  said  he 
was  astonished. 

They  had  all  been  engaged  for  years  in  flirt- 
ing much  and  often,  but  they  instinctively 
perceived  that  Arenberg  was  sincere.  Hence 
their  moral  indigestion.  For  a  strong  and 
deep  friendship  between  a  man  and  woman 
without  the  pale  of  matrimony  was  in  their 
eyes  a  crime.  Very  bare  shoulders,  very  bold 
glances,  ribald  jest,  but  half-veneered,  a 
musky  atmosphere  of  untruth,  envy,  and  mock- 
ing lovelessness,  the  quick  stab  for  the  fallen, 
the  smirk  for  the  rising  man,  creeping  ser- 
vility before  senile  and  tottering  Highnesses, 
a  large  tolerance  for  frantic  waltzing  and  con- 
servatory-intermezzi in  aristocratic  houses,  a 
tremendous  respect  for  the  holy  union  of  a 
title  and  American  dollars,  such  as  Count  and 
Countess  Arco's,  or  such  as  Leo  Uhlefeldt's 
and  Florence  Arco's  would  be,  or  such  in 
which  husband  and  wife  walk  together  through 
life  in  yawning  indifference,  weary  discon- 
tent, or  pronounced  animosity,  and  mentally 
less  allied,  giving  each  other  less  faith, 
respect,  and  honesty  than  average  business 
25 


386  The  Garden  of  Eden 

associates,  —  all  this  was  moral.  That  which 
was  accepted  was,  obviously,  moral. 

Arenberg  might  have  whispered  insolent 
flatteries  to  pretty  women  every  night  of  his 
life,  and  made  love  —  Baretinsky-love  —  to 
them  with  impunity,  and  waltzed  madly  with 
them,  provided  he  cared  only  for  their  charm- 
ing little  masks,  and,  in  general,  to  eat, 
drink,  and  be  merry.  For  the  most  profound 
emotion  of  which  he  was  capable,  for  a  love 
that  made  life  peace  and  heaven  nearer,  that 
exalted  and  ennobled,  there  was  no  room  in 
society. 

Meanwhile  Arenberg  was  unaware  of  the 
pains  his  sister-in-law  was  taking  in  his  be- 
half. What  he  felt,  thought,  and  endured, 
he  imparted  to  no  one.  His  actual  inter- 
course with  Monica  had  thus  far  consisted  in 
an  exchange  of  letters,  while  she  was  staying 
at  the  Lorings'  country  place  during  the  sum- 
mer; an  occasional  letter  since;  a  brief  visit 
once  a  week,  or  ten  or  fourteen  days,  as  his 
professional  duties  permitted,  and  one  more 
long  and  lovely  walk  on  the  hills  by  night. 

If  alone,  he  sometimes  feared  he  might  not 
have  sufficient  strength  for  this  relationship; 
curiously  enough,  Monica  herself  uncon- 
sciously reassured  him.  In  her  presence,  that 


The  Garden  of  Eden  387 

which  the  world  would  have  pronounced  im- 
possible often  grew  simple  and  clear.  Yet  he 
fought  many  battles,  as  an  honest  man  must, 
confronted  by  this  problem,  and  the  great 
Saint  Benedict  had  a  voice  in  the  matter. 

That  a  doctor  should  now  and  then  appear 
in  the  house  of  an  old  patient  could  create  no 
comment  whatever,  Arenberg  reasoned,  reck- 
oning without  his  Orla.  A  doctor  has  the 
right  of  way  everywhere.  Therefore  Monica 
would  be  unmolested.  As  to  Melanie,  — 
though  they  were  not  on  terms  of  confidence, 
their  innermost  thoughts  were  strangers,  one 
to  the  other,  —  yet  he  did  not  for  an  instant 
seek  to  disguise  from  her  his  new  interest. 
Flowers  and  books  he  frequently  sent  to  cheer 
his  patients.  It  pleased  him  to  send  his 
little  boys  with  such  messages  to  Monica, 
and  the  children,  it  happened,  liked  to  go. 

Melanie  said,  one  day,  in  the  sharp  and 
querulous  tone  which  she  reserved  for  home 
use: 

"You  seem  quite  intimate  with  that  Miss 
Randolph." 

"We  are  very  good  friends." 

"Is  she  ill?" 

"On  the  contrary,  admirably  well." 

"How  do  you  happen  to  know  her?  " 


388  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"She  was  ill  last  spring,  when  her  mother 
died.  I  was  called  to  her." 

M^lanie  was  silent  for  a  while. 

"But  now  she  is  well,  you  continue  your 
visits  ? " 

"You  know  perfectly  that  I  have  little 
time  for  any  pleasure.  It  is,  in  every  sense, 
a  rare  pleasure  when  I  see  Miss  Randolph," 
he  returned  quietly.  "I  have  no  greater." 

It  seemed  to  him  fair  to  say  as  much,  or 
as  little  as  this  to  the  woman,  who,  however 
remote  from  him,  bore  his  name  and  was  the 
mother  of  his  children;  and  he  knew  no 
reason  —  in  consideration  of  certain  episodes 
in  the  past,  and  of  the  fact  that  Melanie 
incessantly  sought  her  own  amusement,  which 
consisted  at  present  in  long  tete-a-tete  with 
Count  Arco  —  why  he,  on  her  account,  need 
hesitate  an  instant. 

"  Well !  "  she  exclaimed,  and  abruptly  left 
the  room. 

Jealousy  without  love  is  not  uncommon, 
but  indisputably  a  most  uncomfortable 
malady.  In  the  category  of  human  ailments, 
it  should  perhaps  be  classified  with  the  stu- 
pendous vanity  which  unloving  wives  display 
on  the  strength  of  money  which  not  they  but 
their  husbands  have  earned,  or  of  worldly 


The  Garden  of  Eden  389 

honors  which  those  henpecked  beings  have 
attained;  ignoble  ownership  may  prevail  where 
love  faileth.  It  was  startling  to  Frau  von 
Arenberg,  that  her  husband,  habitually  pre- 
occupied with  his  profession,  should  interest 
himself  in  a  woman  devoid  of  pathological 
charm.  His  frankness  irritated  her,  and  she 
objected  to  the  tone  of  infinite  respect,  of 
homage,  which  had  sounded  through  his  brief 
statement.  Still,  her  vexation  might  have 
passed  as  any  other  mood  were  it  not  for 
Orla. 

Orla  for  years  had  tried,  in  vain,  to  obtain 
some  vantage-ground  against  Arenberg.  He 
exasperated  her  beyond  endurance.  A  mere 
brother-in-law,  yet  so  gently  and  successfully 
recalcitrant.  When  she  metaphorically  put 
her  small  foot  upon  her  big  Hermann,  and  he 
neither  squirmed  nor  gasped,  it  was  but  natural 
that  she  should  attempt  dominion  in  the 
adjacent  region  of  her  younger  sister's  domes- 
tic affairs.  Hermann  was  brown  and  burly  as 
Vulcan,  yet  he  quailed.  Aurel  was  slight, 
and  pale,  and  mild,  yet  from  any  onslaught 
upon  him  she  fell  back  powerless.  When 
she  was  ill  he  was  exceedingly  kind,  she 
could  not  deny.  But,  ordinarily,  his  expres- 
sion of  speculative,  abstract  interest,  when  at 


390  The  Garden  of  Eden 

a  dinner  she  was  conversing  brilliantly  upon 
subjects  she  had  expressly  prepared  —  and 
this  fact  she  suspected  he  knew  —  or  when 
she  launched  herself  upon  the  subject  of  his 
family  matters,  was  intolerable.  Long  ago, 
briefly,  when  they  were  all  young,  he  had 
been,  like  Hermann,  wax  in  her  hands.  She 
could  not  forgive  Aurel  that  he  had  so  speedily 
regained  his  freedom.  She  was  always  seek- 
ing to  re-establish  her  supremacy,  and  could 
not  refrain  from  restless,  desultory  attack. 
Her  darts  were  wont  to  glance  back  from  the 
fine  armor  of  his  tranquil  impenetrability,  but 
now  she  exulted. 

As  for  Monica  Randolph,  when  she  merely 
passed  in  a  crowded  room,  Frau  Selbitz  felt  a 
strong  and  not  inexplicable  antipathy.  For 
one  was  indigenous,  the  other  exotic;  one 
dark,  the  other  fair ;  one  was  bright  and  fairly 
well  read;  the  other,  more  or  less  equipped, 
worked  openly  in  the  literary  field ;  moreover, 
Baron  Lobanow,  and  Baron  Bar  et  in  sky,  and 
that  pleasant  Mr.  Forsythe  and  Excel lenz 
General  Count  Ehrenstein  and  other  not  in- 
significant persons  had  persisted  in  manifest- 
ing some  interest  in  the  stranger. 

Orla  Selbitz  was  not,  however,  the  worst  of 
women.  Pretty,  to  many  persons  pleasing, 


The  Garden  of  Eden  391 

she  had,  like  most  of  us,  her  softer  moments, 
her  good  days.  But  nature  had  moulded  her 
rather  small  and  hard,  and  her  training  had 
not  increased  her  spiritual  stature.  The 
vehemence  of  her  action  in  this  matter  was, 
at  all  events,  perfectly  sincere. 

In  constantly  inciting  Melanie  to  wrath, 
Orla  was  agitated  by  delight  in  the  fray,  an 
idea  that  she  was  defending  her  altars  and 
her  fires;  indignation  with  Arenberg's  unex- 
pectedness; suspicion,  ignorance,  and  dislike 
of  the  stranger,  wounded  vanity,  jealousy,  — 
in  short,  mixed  motives,  upon  the  whole,  no 
more  malevolent  than  such  as  may  prevail  in 
large  movements  to  which  we  give  fair  names ; 
popular  patriotism,  for  instance,  which  also 
induces  us  to  march  out  and  ignorantly  slay. 

After  a  sinuous  course  of  discussion  with 
many  persons,  who,  knowing  Arenberg,  for 
the  most  part  gave  the  matter  no  second 
thought,  and  after  expounding  and  expatiat- 
ing unweariedly  to  Hermann  and  Melanie, 
Orla  finally  approached  Aurel,  and  with 
ominously  resolute  mien  seated  herself  near 
his  writing-table.  He  looked  up  inquiringly, 
heard  her  opening  phrases,  regarded  her  an 
instant  with  grave  incredulity,  got  up,  and 
opened  the  door  wide. 


392  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"I  must  beg  you,  Orla,"  he  said  quietly, 
"to  confine  such  —  attentions  to  Hermann." 

Why  she  at  once  obeyed  the  insistence  of 
his  eyes  she  could  not  afterwards  explain,  but 
found  herself  in  stormy  mood  on  the  other 
side  of  the  door,  and  flew  to  Melanie  to  hold 
a  long  council  of  war. 

Monica  was  working  hard  and  better.  Her 
pen  had  lost  its  perilous  facility,  and  she 
occasionally  said  what  she  meant.  She  had 
written  a  couple  of  small  books  in  the  three 
years.  So  far  as  she  remembered  the  manu- 
scripts, —  she  had  not  read  them  in  print,  for 
she  possessed  a  natural  taste  for  good  litera- 
ture, —  they  were  puny  and  anaemic  infants. 
But  the  novel  she  had  now  begun  promised  to 
be  more  muscular.  Arenberg  was  vastly  in- 
terested in  it.  "Whether  the  little  writing 
demon  in  her  was  the  transfiguration  of  some 
poet  who  had  lived  many  thousands  of  years 
ago,  or  a  sublimated  distillation  of  a  whole 
horde  of  spooks,"  Arenberg  assured  her,  he 
liked  and  was  proud  of  him. 

Arenberg  was  the  first  person  whose  influ- 
ence was  of  positive  help  to  her  in  her  work. 
He  never  found  fault  with  her  for  not  being 
somebody  else,  but  aided  her  to  be  more  truly 
herself.  His  companionship  was  a  profound 


The  Garden  of  Eden  393 

joy.  Not  only  his  wide  range  of  knowledge, 
his  familiarity  with  literature  and  languages, 
delighted  her,  but  more  and  more  he  revealed 
an  extreme  gentleness,  a  large,  general  be- 
nevolence, a  wise  interest  in  small  things, 
a  way  of  always  seeking  the  simple  and  the 
good.  He  transported  her  to  a  realm  where 
was  more  space,  more  air.  Her  mother's 
death  had  led  him  into  her  life.  Over  their 
friendship  brooded  this  sweet  and  solemn 
memory.  His  hand  had  sustained,  his  voice 
recalled  her  to  life  and  duty.  It  would  have 
been  hardly  possible  for  her  at  that  time  to 
express,  in  words,  her  sentiments  for  him. 
She  did  not  question  them,  however.  If  one 
of  the  angels  and  archangels  of  the  floating 
vision  of  her  childhood  had  descended  and. 
stood  before  her,  he  would  hardly  have  im- 
pressed her  more  than  Arenberg,  in  some 
moments,  —  perhaps,  indeed,  less.  For  the 
patient  heroism  of  his  life  she  was  beginning 
to  perceive;  and  it  must  be  easier  to  float 
about  on  wings  and  cry  Holy  than  to  be  an 
overworked  doctor  with  a  delicate  constitu- 
tion. 

In  her  attitude  toward  him  was  something 
which  he  found  nobly  fraternal.  She  was  for 
him  the  one  woman  on  earth,  but  often  he 


394  The  Garden  of  Eden 

felt,  with  immense  satisfaction,  that  in  cer- 
tain respects  she  was  like  a  man-friend.  To 
no  person  had  he  ever  spoken  with  such  unre- 
serve. Many  rich  elements,  as  always  in  the 
strongest  and  best  attachments,  rendered  their 
intercourse  ever  fresh,  interesting,  and  sweeter. 
Monica  loved  all  her  dead  loves,  and  loved 
them  to  the  day  of  her  death  —  and  beyond. 
Keith,  too,  was  a  dead  love  now,  as  far  away 
as  her  mother  and  Lilian.  But  this  affection 
included  them  all.  Arenberg  gradually,  im- 
perceptibly, subtly,  was  becoming  her  home, 
her  country,  her  family,  her  brother,  her 
friend,  her  dearest  love,  her  religion,  her 
highest  good.  But  so  natural,  so  inevitable 
was  this,  she  had  not  once  thought  of  herself 
as  being  what  is  called  "in  love." 

He  was  the  blessing  sent  to  her  in  her 
anguish.  He  lent  a  deeper  significance  to  her 
life.  It  was  an  exceedingly  busy  life  that 
winter.  Many  shipwrecked  wanderers  with 
tale  of  dire  disaster  found  their  way  to  her. 
She  needed  to  join  no  benevolent  club  or 
society.  Strange  confidences,  touching  reve- 
lations and  entreaties  came  continually  un- 
sought. Sometimes  people  whom  she  was 
aiding  deceived  her,  which  troubled  her 
little.  She  saw  no  reason  why  falsehood 


The  Garden  of  Eden  395 

should  be  exclusively  the  prerogative  of  po- 
lite* society.  The  fibs  of  the  poor  seemed 
indeed  but  a  venial  sin,  —  all  things  consid- 
ered. In  many  ways,  with  Arenberg's  wise 
counsel,  she  was  working  for  and  helping 
little  children,  and  had  great  schemes  for 
them  in  view.  Altogether,  with  her  news- 
paper work,  her  music,  her  book,  and  her 
active  interest  in  human  lives,  her  days  were 
busier  and  more  useful  than  before,  and  over 
them  like  a  white  radiance  shone  Arenberg's 
affection. 

One  afternoon,  much  to  her  surprise,  Frau 
von  Arenberg  was  announced.  She  came  in 
bright  and  dark,  and  said  smilingly  she 
thought  it  was  time  she,  too,  should  become 
acquainted  with  so  good  a  friend  of  her  hus- 
band and  her  little  boys.  Monica  found  this 
very  natural  and  kind.  The  lively  little  lady 
chattered  on,  looked  well  at  Monica,  and 
exhaustively  at  the  room.  They  had  almost 
met  so  often,  Melanie  said,  she  had  determined, 
at  last,  to  give  herself  the  pleasure. 

"Kill  her  with  amiability,"  Orla  had  said. 
"  Take  the  matter  into  your  own  hands.    Con- 
trol  it.     That   is  the  first  thing  to  do.     Get 
control."     Count  Arco  thought  the  idea  excel-- 
lent. 


396  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Melanie  decided,  as  she  sat  by  Monica  on 
the  sofa,  that  she  was  not,  after  all  the 
excitement,  so  dangerous  as  Orla  imagined. 
Of  course,  if  one  cares  for  that  style !  — 
Melanie  preferred  an  altogether  different 
style.  The  room  looked  not  at  all  inviting 
—  like  a  man's  room:  so  many  books  and 
papers.  She  wondered  how  often  Aurel  came 
there,  and  what  he  found  so  very  interesting 
in  Monica,  and  what  they  talked  about. 
With  curious,  bright,  hard  glances,  Melanie 
made  her  inventory. 

Monica  thought  it  good  of  her  to  come,  and 
because  she  was  Arenberg's  wife,  felt  a  sin- 
cere and  rather  wistful  interest  in  her,  would 
have  liked  to  care  for  anybody  or  anything 
dear  to  him,  remembered  at  the  moment  not 
a  word  of  Elizabeth's  disclosures,  assumed 
Melanie  must  be  near  to  him,  yet  wondered 
instinctively  if  she  understood  him,  for  her 
conversation  and  her  manner  were  as  if  she 
inhabited  another  world  from  his. 

Monica  asked  her  how  he  was.  She  had 
thought  he  looked  very  fatigued  when  she 
last  saw  him. 

Melanie  replied,  "Oh  dear,  yes;  he  raced 
about  so  it  was  natural  he  should  look  tired." 
But  he  was  tough,  she  thought,  —  wiry.  She 


The  Garden  of  Eden  397 

hardly  saw  him  herself.  He  came  in  usually 
after  lunch,  and  irregularly  to  dinner. 

"Never  marry  a  doctor,  Miss  Randolph," 
she  said,  with  some  bitterness  in  her  laugh. 
"A  doctor's  wife  has  a  miserable,  neglected 
existence,  I  assure  you.  She  might  as  well 
have  no  husband  as  one  never  on  hand." 

Monica  heard  the  discontent,  but  mistook 
its  cause,  —  thought  it  a  note  of  natural  affec- 
tion, when  it  was  but  a  note  of  selfishness,  — 
believed  it  meant  longing  for  Arenberg's 
companionship  instead  of  a  huge  impatience 
with  his  profession,  and  with  his  total  indif- 
ference to  the  only  kind  of  life  she  craved. 
She  was  small  and  childish,  like  her  Egon, 
and  petulant  —  Monica  saw  only  feeling. 
Arenberg  seemed  so  unutterably  precious, 
and  here  was  his  poor  little  wife  complaining 
that  she  never  saw  him.  Perhaps  this  was 
the  motive  of  the  visit.  I  am  not  in  the  world 
to  make  people  suffer,  thought  Monica.  With 
a  warm  rush  of  emotion,  and  one  of  her  sudden 
impulses,  face  to  face,  eye  to  eye,  she  looked 
at  the  woman  so  near  her,  and  said  steadily: 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  away?  Because, 
if  you  ask  me,  I  will  go." 

"Oh  dear,  no,"  replied  Frau  von  Aren- 
berg, shaking  her  head  airily. 


398  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Monica  went  on,  very  pale: 

"  I  am  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  say  to  you 
how  attached  I  am  to  Dr.  Arenberg.  It  is 
not  possible  to  know  him  without  affection. 
He  has  been  wonderful  to  me.  I  have  had 
losses,  and  he  has  helped  me  to  bear  them. 
His  is  the  highest  nature  I  have  known,  and 
the  most  lovable.  I  care  more  deeply  for  him 
than  for  any  one  in  the  world.  But  nothing 
binds  me.  I  can  go  anywhere;  I  will,  if  you 
ask  me. " 

"She  is  queer,"  thought  M61anie.  "Fancy 
me  telling  Countess  Arco  how  devoted  I  am 
to  the  count !  "  Aloud :  "  I  trust  I  am  suffi- 
ciently a  woman  of  the  world  not  to  take  a 
little  affair  too  seriously.  On  the  contrary,  I 
pray,  amuse  yourselves  as  much  as  you  like. 
And  if  ever  you  have  the  whim  to  come  to  see 
him  in  his  office  hours,  he  would  be  charmed, 
no  doubt. " 

Monica  failed  to  understand  this  flippant 
amiability  and  talk  of  whims  and  amusing 
themselves.  She  felt  out  of  accord  with  her 
visitor,  yet  still  desirous  of  finding  her 
friendly,  lovable.  Melanie  took  leave  cor- 
dially, after  begging  her  to  come  to  afternoon 
tea  on  the  following  day.  Thus  spake  Orla. 

Monica  found  the  sisters  exceedingly  viva- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  399 

cious,  and  was  conscious  that  Frau  Selbitz 
and  she  were  not  precisely  elective  affinities. 
Frau  von  Arenberg  she  was  conscientiously 
trying  to  like.  But  conscience  never  yet 
controlled  sympathy.  What  they  deemed 
important,  desirable,  and  indispensable  was 
the  reverse  to  her;  for  example,  breathless 
interest  in  the  movements  of  their  Majesties, 
whether  they  were  in  this  or  that  castle,  had 
driven  in  the  park  or  on  the  hills,  how  many 
minutes  the  prince  had  spoken  with  some 
blissful  mortal  at  a  ball,  and  other  equally 
astounding  and  portentous  incidents. 

Count  Arco  came  in,  amiable  and  idle,  and 
contributed  the  very  latest  court  news.  Monica 
knew  that  Frau  Selbitz  was  watching  her  con- 
stantly, and  that  benevolence  dwelt  not  in 
those  beady  black  eyes.  She  thought,  with- 
out condemnation,  merely  with  a  clear  sense 
of  being  alien  to  this  group,  that  it  was  well 
she  had  not  to  drink  tea  with  them  every 
day.  Still  she  endeavored  to  exclude  M^lanie 
because  she  belonged  to  Arenberg. 

"He  is  in  his  study,  and  has  no  suspicion 
who  is  here,"  Melanie  said,  laughing.  "He 
does  not  yet  know  I,  too,  have  the  honor  of 
your  acquaintance.  If  you  happen  to  be  in 
the  mood,  pray  go  in  —  he  probably  is  closeted 


400  The  Garden  of  Eden 

with  ailing  butchers  and  bakers,  but  he  would 
be  charmed,  no  doubt. " 

They  all  laughed.  This  was  what  Orla 
called  control. 

"I  should  hardly  like  to  disturb  him," 
Monica  replied,  flushed,  and  wondered  if  her 
reply  were  not  foolish. 

Self-consciousness  was  not  usually  her  weak- 
ness, but  their  jest  for  that  which  she  revered, 
confused  her.  Had  they  enticed  her  here 
merely  to  mock?  She  pictured  Arenberg 
with  his  butchers  and  bakers,  their  aches  and 
their  lives  the  better  for  his  ministrations, 
and  suddenly  she  was  calm  and  comforted. 

He  evinced  no  surprise  or  disapproval  when 
his  wife,  with  a  certain  triumphant  intona- 
tion, announced  that  she  had  been  to  see  Miss 
Randolph,  and  the  interview  had  passed  off 
very  well. 

"Why  should  it  not?"  he  said,  with  a 
slight  smile.  "There  was  hardly  a  necessity 
to  have  it  rival  the  celebrated  meeting  of 
Queen  Elizabeth  and  Maria  Stuart." 

"And  yesterday  she  was  here  to  tea," 
Me'lanie  continued,  and  afterwards  assured 
Orla  that  Aurel  acted  most  indifferent. 

"  Acts,  yes,  acts  —  He  is  a  good  actor. 
But  have  her  here  often.  Control  them." 


The  Garden  of  Eden  401 

Arenberg,  having  no  ambition  to  control  any- 
thing beyond  his  own  affairs,  reasoned  that  his 
wife  was  a  free  agent  and  had  the  right  to  make 
acquaintances  and  invite  ladies  to  tea  precisely 
as  seemed  good  to  her.  Yet  could  he  have 
prevented  her  action,  he  would.  She  gave  him, 
indeed,  no  opportunity;  and  had  she  intimated 
her  design,  the  slightest  word  of  opposition  on 
his  part  would  but  have  roused  her  suspicion 
and  precipitated  the  meeting.  He  distrusted 
Orla,  and  vaguely  foresaw  rough  weather. 

It  was  as  if  Monica  and  he  had  left  their 
still  island,  and  put  off  in  a  frail  bark  toward 
stormy  waters.  But  the  first  night  she  came 
to  dinner  the  atmosphere  was  innocuous,  and 
he  experienced  a  deep  yet  sad  sort  of  happi- 
ness as  he  beheld  her  under  his  own  roof,  and 
among  the  familiar  things  of  his  daily  life. 
She  saw  his  queer,  large  study,  with  its  niches 
and  alcoves,  and  strange  instruments,  and 
books  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  the  curiosity- 
shop  department,  and  his  Murillo,  and  the 
appointments  of  his  writing-table,  and  Saint 
Benedict. 

"A  nice  dark-tower,  crawly  sort  of  place," 
she  thought. 

"  Uncommonly   graceful   figure  —  beautiful 
thing,  Arenberg,"  said  Baron  Lobanow. 
26 


402  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"But  ghastly,"  added  Baretinsky.  "You 
doctors  can  stomach  anything.  You  have  no 
sense  of  the  disagreeable." 

"  We  get  rather  hardened  in  time,  happily." 

"  Who  is  the  old  chap  ?  " 

"Only  a  monk.  I  picked  it  up  once  in 
Nuremberg.  It  is  good  old  work.  Beautiful 
anatomy. " 

"  Fine !  "  said  Lobanow. 

"Upon  my  word,  Arenberg, "  exclaimed 
Baretinsky,  jovially,  "  I  believe  he  is  a  bit 
thinner  than  you!" 

"Yes,  in  point  of  leanness  I  can  emulate 
almost  anybody,  —  saint,  sinner,  or  grey- 
hound." 

Monica  silently  examined  the  hooded  monk, 
knew  not  who  he  was,  but  whom  he  was 
strangely  like.  The  emaciated  yet  noble 
features  of  the  bowed  head  under  the  cowl, 
the  inscrutable,  downward  glance,  with  the 
mystery  and  lofty  sadness,  the  restraining 
finger  on  the  lip;  and  even  the  tall,  slight 
form,  in  spite  of  clinging  robe  and  girdle 
of  rope,  and  the  large  cross  lying  along  the 
arm,  —  were  well  known  to  her.  But  then 
so  many  exquisite  and  ideal  heads  suggested 
Arenberg. 

The  experienced  Madame  von  Baretinsky, 


The  Garden  of  Eden  403 

after  thorough  inspection,  whispered  to  Orla 
there  was  not  the  least  indication  of  "  it  "  in 
Arenberg's  eyes.  Orla  could  trust  her  diag- 
nosis. But,  on  the  other  hand,  Orla  observed, 
and  duly  called  M61anie's  attention  to  the 
fact,  that  Arenberg's  patients  seemed  to  be 
in  a  very  flourishing  condition  that  evening; 
at  all  events,  contrary  to  his  custom,  he  hung 
about  a  good  hour  after  dinner. 

Thereafter,  for  some  weeks  Monica  found 
herself  frequently  in  this  little  circle,  where 
she  never  once  felt  happy.  Yet  if  Frau  von 
Arenberg  was  kind  enough  to  constantly 
invite  her  and  come  for  her  to  run  over  to 
the  Arcos'  or  to  Frau  Selbitz',  and  display  to 
the  world  a  distinct  sort  of  intimacy,  —  the 
outward  intimacy  of  but  hollow  intercourse, 
—  it  seemed  ungracious  and  ungrateful  to 
repulse  a  healthful  liberality  of  sentiment 
which  Monica  was  well  aware  few  women 
possessed. 

These  invitations  made  large  inroads  on 
her  time,  and  she  was  nearer  Arenberg  and 
infinitely  more  content,  alone  in  her  own 
study.  Elizabeth  and  Eleanor  complained, 
they  hardly  saw  her,  and  never,  now,  had  their 
audacious  little  midnight  discussions  in  which 
they  three  set  the  world  to  rights.  It  was  all 


404  The  Garden  of  Eden 

unsatisfactory  and  depressing  to  Monica;  and 
while  she  yielded  to  circumstances  she  re- 
proached herself  for  the  great  waste  of  time, 
and  determined  to  free  herself  gradually  from 
the  demands  of  a  society  for  which  she  had 
no  aptitude. 

Several  insignificant  incidents  proved  to 
her  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt  that  Orla 
Selbitz  meant  mischief.  In  her  presence  some 
subtle  instinct  flung  out  signals  of  danger. 

One  evening,  at  a  dinner  at  the  Arenbergs', 
Monica  happened  to  say,  idly,  as  Lobanow 
alluded  to  the  "blonde  Achilles,"  that  she 
thought  blonde  men  were  more  sympathetic; 
at  least,  she  personally  understood  them  better 
than  the  Othellos.  Some  trifling  jest  ensued. 
Suddenly  from  the  other  end  of  the  table  a 
pointed  voice  exclaimed : 

"But  Professor  Honold,  in  Munich,  is  not 
blonde,  Miss  Randolph." 

A  short  pause  of  expectation,  but  long 
enough  to  recall  to  Monica  an  all  but  forgotten 
episode.  —  Ultra  genteel  persons  are  advised 
to  skip  this  paragraph,  which  is  rather  shock- 
ing. —  Long  ago,  she,  Elizabeth,  and  Lai 
Loring  took  a  short  excursion  into  the  country 
with  a  certain  learned  man  and  his  wife,  who, 
having  completed  their  quest  sooner  than  they 


The  Garden  of  Eden  405 

anticipated,  proposed  going  on  to  Munich, 
which  was  near.  After  but  one  day  there 
they  returned  home;  the  young  people,  hav- 
ing special  art  treasures  in  view,  decided  to 
follow  them  by  the  evening  train.  While 
Monica  was  rapidly  outlining  an  article  for 
the  Panyphone,  Elizabeth  and  Lai  Loring 
wandered  forth,  wasted  their  substance,  and 
brought  back  porcelain  pictures,  and  nice 
little  silver  monks,  and  empty  pockets. 

Before  their  friends  went,  a  careful  discus- 
sion of  finances  had  taken  place.  But  painted 
porcelain  and  silver!  There  was  no  time  to 
telegraph  home,  little  for  counsel,  and  it  was 
imperative  that  they  should  leave  by  the 
seven  o'clock  train,  for  Monica  was  needed  at 
the  Nosegay  office  on  the  following  morning, 
Elizabeth  at  the  Conservatory,  and  Lai  Lor- 
ing was  more  than  due  at  his  University. 
Money  enough  to  pay  their  hotel  bill  and 
buy  their  tickets,  they  had  not,  —  not  indeed 
enough  for  either  one  or  the  other.  The 
two  culprits  jeered  and  goaded  Monica. 
Elizabeth  said  it  was  nice  and  Bohemian. 
Lai  Loring  suggested  pawning  his  watch, 
thought  the  hotel  man  might  trust  them. 
Then  there  was  the  American  Consul.  It 
was  his  duty  to  succor  distressed  compatriots. 


406  The  Garden  of  Eden 

But  the  Consulate  was  far,  and  perhaps  he 
was  not  there. 

"  Where  is  your  contempt  for  money  now, 
Monica?" 

"  Unshaken.  I  am  going  to  Professor 
Honold.  He  is  the  only  person  I  know  in 
the  place.  He  is  a  gentleman.  He  devoted 
hours  to  us  yesterday,  and  begged  me,  if  he 
could  serve  us  in  the  slightest  way  to-day,  to 
command  him.  I  would  rather  be  indebted 
to  him  for  one  half -day  —  they  will  send  it 
from  the  bank  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morn- 
ing —  than  to  have  to  make  explanations  to  the 
hotel  people." 

But  as  they  drew  near  the  Museum,  and 
mounted  the  great  stairway,  Monica  quaked. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "it  is  very  distressing.  I 
have  the  proper  contempt  for  money,  but  how 
do  I  know  he  has ! " 

"Clear  case  of  the  barking  dog,"  returned 
Elizabeth,  cheerfully.  "The  little  boy's 
mother  asked  him  how  he  could  be  afraid, 
since  the  barking  dog  never  bites.  '  I  know 
the  barking  dog  never  bites,'  said  the  boy, 
'  but  how  do  I  know  the  dog  knows  it  ? ' 

With  this  meagre  moral  support,  Monica 
presented  herself  and  her  pitiful  plight  before 
the  cordial  man  with  his  great  brown  beard. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  407 

He  divined  her  errand  almost  before  she  be- 
gan, made  the  matter  so  simple,  so  natural,  so 
altogether  easy,  that  one  was  tempted  to  infer 
this  little  recreation  lay  in  the  line  of  his  daily 
duties;  and  Monica's  contempt  for  money  and 
faith  in  human  nature  triumphed  superbly. 

But  now,  as  the  sharp  little  voice  chal- 
lenged her,  and  she  perceived  instinctively 
all  these  people  were  acquainted  with  the 
tale,  and  could  well  distort  its  light  structure, 
she  had,  for  an  instant,  stage  fright;  then, 
slowly  looking  upon  her  surroundings,  "  like 
a  Horatius  Codes  in  miniature,"  Arenberg 
told  her  afterwards,  she  regarded  the  smiling 
enemy,  and  it  was  really  but  a  few  seconds 
since  she  heard  those  startling  words,  "But 
-Professor  Honold,  in  Munich,  is  not  blonde," 
before  she  answered  clearly  and  deliberately : 

"No,  but  he  has  a  blonde  soul." 

Because  the  men  laughed,  Orla  Selbitz 
liked  her  less  than  ever.  That  same  evening 
they  were  discussing  Rome,  and  an  incident 
at  an  audience  of  the  Pope. 

"Did  you  really  kneel  and  kiss  his  hand?  " 
asked  Melanie. 

"Certainly." 

"  What  principles  for  a  Protestant !  "  said 
Orla. 


408  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  a  rabid  protester, "  returned 
Monica,  with  a  little  laugh.  "Besides,  I 
would  kiss  the  hand  of  any  venerable  man." 

"It  is  surprising  how  diametrically  our 
tastes  differ,"  remarked  Baretinsky. 

These  things  were  mere  pin-pricks,  Monica 
reflected,  but  Orla  Selbitz's  inimical  scrutiny 
followed  her  persistently,  and  kept  her  always 
on  guard.  Moreover,  to  meet  Arenberg  in 
this  superficial,  fruitless  fashion,  and  in  an 
atmosphere  where  he,  as  little  as  she,  breathed 
freely,  awoke  in  her  an  inexplicable  unrest. 
In  February  an  illness  of  Frau  von  Arenberg 
interrupted  a  state  of  affairs  which,  with  a 
strong  crescendo  had  been  growing  to  Mon- 
ica more  and  more  unedifying. 

In  nearly  three  weeks  she  had  not  seen 
Arenberg,  but  had  received  from  him  one  or 
two  brief  messages,  thoughtful,  singularly 
charming  and  characteristic,  as  were  all  his 
letters.  She  was  working  quietly  and  pa- 
tiently, though  longing  always  for  his  presence. 
She  heard  from  him  that,  besides  much  work 
on  all  sides,  he  had  somewhat  of  a  hospital 
at  home,  both  children  being  ill.  He  had  no 
prospect  of  coming  to  her,  yet  greatly  desired 
to  see  her,  having  the  references  she  wished, 
and  would  she,  if  she  were  not  too  busy,  be 


The  Garden  of  Eden  409 

so  very  good  as  to  come  in  that  afternoon  for 
a  few  minutes. 

Monica  as  she  went  out  asked  Frau  Erhardt 
to  kindly  beg  Elizabeth  if  she  should  want 
her,  to  wait ;  she  should  not  be  gone  long,  Dr. 
Arenberg  wished  to  see  her  an  instant.  It 
was  a  blustering,  slippery,  snowy  day.  Just 
before  her  Monica  saw  Frau  Selbitz  pick  her 
way  across  an  icy  spot,  and  enter  the  Aren- 
berg house.  From  the  waiting-room,  among 
the  butchers  and  bakers,  poor  dears,  Monica 
could  have  slipped  in  to  the  study  unobserved, 
which  however  did  not  occur  to  her.  To 
save  time,  she  sent  in  her  name,  was  shown 
an  instant  into  the  drawing-room,  and  imme- 
diately into  Arenberg' s  study.  In  the  long 
clasp  of  their  hands,  the  meeting  of  their 
glad  glances,  was  infinite  tenderness,  —  an 
essential  caress.  Monica  loosened  her  furs, 
and  sat  down  in  the  chair  he  pulled  near 
his  desk.  They  had  not  spoken  a  half-dozen 
trivial  words,  but  both  were  smiling  as  if  life 
were  pure  sunshine,  when  a  door  was  violently 
flung  open,  and  a  little  woman  in  a  volumi- 
nous green  tea-gown  entered  with  precipita- 
tion. Melanie's  face  was  convulsed  with 
rage,  and  colored  deep  yellow  by  jaundice. 


410  The  Garden  of  Eden 


XV 

THE  two  by  the  table  rose  involuntarily. 

Melanie  came  forward. 

"  Miss  Randolph,"  she  cried,  "  this  is  dis- 
graceful. Why  are  you  here  behind  my  back 
and  taking  advantage  of  my  illness?" 

"  Melanie !  "  exclaimed  Arenberg,  pale  and 
suddenly  taller. 

She  advanced  upon  Monica,  who,  knowing 
all  this  was  most  awful,  instead  of  consciously 
realizing  its  awfulness,  began  in  a  senseless 
fashion  to  remotely  watch  their  three  figures, 
hers  and  theirs,  as  if  they  were  on  the  stage, 
and  to  wonder  childishly  at  that  yellow  face, 
how  any  face  could  possibly  be  so  yellow,  how 
singularly  vivid  it  looked  in  contrast  to  that 
green,  and  what  process  actually  took  place 
in  the  liver  and  the  blood  to  render  a  face  so 
yellow.  And  all  the  time  she  perceived  the 
sharpness  of  feature,  eye,  and  voice,  the  un- 
curbed aggressive  violence.  She  had  never 
seen  a  woman  in  such  a  frenzy  of  anger  — 
never  listened  to  so  wild  a  volley  of  insult. 
Arenberg  stepped  again  between  them. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  411 

"Melanie!"  he  repeated  low  and  strongly, 
as  if  to  recall  her  to  reason,  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  her  shoulder.  She  shook  it  off  contemp- 
tuously and  continued  her  "  Words  —  words 

—  words." 

Out  of  the  depths  of  Monica's  condition  of 
psychological  incongruity  rose  a  clear  and 
cool  perception  that  this  was  a  very  trying 
moment  for  Arenberg.  She  also  observed 
that  he  looked  extremely  handsome.  She 
wondered  what  he  would  now  do.  But  most 
of  all  she  wondered  at  Melanie's  yellow  face. 

"  Miss  Randolph  was  good  enough  to  come 
down,"  Arenberg  began,  as  soon  as  the  torrent 
of  words  ceased  long  enough  to  permit  him 
to  speak,  "  for  the  simple  reason  that  I  ex- 
pressly begged  her  to  come." 

His  perfect  control  and  intense  gravity 
seemed  to  impress  the  irritated  little  woman 

—  already   conscious   her    outbreak  was   ex- 
treme.    Monica  had  not  moved,  felt  not  the 
slightest  sense  of  responsibility,  or  any  neces- 
sity of  response. 

Arenberg  approached,  took  her  by  the 
hand,  led  her  across  the  room,  and  said  with 
sadness : 

"  Forgive  me  that  I  unwittingly  caused  you 
this,"  kissed  her  hands,  and  closed  the  study 


412  The  Garden  of  Eden 

door  upon  her.  She  passed  out,  attended  by 
Wolf,  and  quiet,  but  when  she  reached  the 
street,  found  herself  trembling  violently. 

"What  does  this  mean,  Melanie?"  Aren- 
berg  asked,  pale  and  stern. 

She  sobbed  hysterically.  From  her  inco- 
herent complaints  he  gathered  that  Orla  was 
hateful  enough  to  want  to  wear  Melanie's  Ital- 
ian peasant  costume,  the  most  becoming  thing 
she  had,  to  the  Arcos'  fancy  ball,  to  which  she 
could  not  go.  Orla  intended  to  be  photo- 
graphed in  it  too !  And  Orla  had  seen  Miss 
Randolph  coming,  and  it  was  detestable  of  her. 
Everybody  was  detestable.  Melanie  threw  her- 
self upon  the  sofa,  wept  copiously,  said  she  was 
ill,  wished  she  were  dead,  had  gone  into  a  cold 
room  to  get  the  costume,  and  her  throat  hurt 
her. 

Without  a  word,  Arenberg  examined  her 
throat.  All  that  night  he  sat  up  with  her. 
Already  ill,  excited,  exhausted,  she  was  seized 
with  diphtheria  in  malignant  form. 

It  was  no  time  for  reproaches,  and  they  were, 
he  knew,  useless.  During  the  night-watches, 
as  he  tended  his  patient,  he  beheld  many  pic- 
tures of  the  past. 

A  young  man,  hardly  more  than  a  boy,  fond 
of  study  and  work;  of  art,  inclined  to  gentle 


The  Garden  of  Eden  413 

melancholy,  full  of  impossible  ideal  schemes 
for  the  good  of  humanity,  extremely  ignorant 
of  woman  —  but  adoring  her  in  passionate  vis- 
ions of  beauty  and  perfect  bliss  —  that  youth 
at  the  University  knew  an  older  student,  Sel- 
bitz  by  name,  and  later  in  another  town  was 
invited  to  his  house.  The  wife  was  pretty, 
vivacious,  and  hospitable  —  unceasing  in  her 
attentions  to  the  young  baron  with  his  eccen- 
tric taste  for  the  medical  profession.  Soon 
she  sent  for  a  younger  sister,  fresh  from 
school.  Dinners,  picnics,  dances  and  endless 
opportunity  were  provided  bounteously.  The 
youth  and  the  maiden  were  cooped  up  insidi- 
ously together.  He  did  not  instinctively  care 
for  her  nor  she  for  him.  At  first  much  in  her 
repelled  him.  But  the  astute  young  wife 
played  providence,  the  sister  was  always  there, 
the  parties  on  foot,  by  boat,  on  horseback  suc- 
ceeded, wherever  they  failed,  in  inducing  one 
long  tete-a-tete.  He  was  young,  his  tem- 
perament amorous,  the  girl  was  young  and 
near  —  pushed,  as  it  were,  into  his  arms.  They 
became  engaged.  It  was  not  long  before  he 
was  aware  of  their  utter  incompatibility.  All 
the  billing  and  cooing  in  the  world  was  not 
sufficient  to  blind  him  to  the  fact  that  there 
was  a  singular  thinness  of  mental  atmosphere 


414  The  Garden  of  Eden 

and  at  times  a  remarkable  hardness  of  senti- 
ment in  this  little  person.  Not  one  thought 
from  the  inner  chambers  of  his  mind  could  he 
lay  before  her.  But  he  was  gentle  with  his 
two-and-twenty  years  and  timidly  averse  to 
giving  pain  —  inclined  to  procrastinate,  to 
temporize.  When,  however,  ugly  and  violent 
scenes  about  trifles  occurred  and  seemed  to 
separate  him  world  wide  from  her,  when  he 
realized  that  she  cared  not  a  whit  for  anything 
that  he  held  dear,  a  great  disillusion  restored 
his  judgment.  He  had  been  a  fool,  but  he  did 
not  love  this  girl.  He  saw  too  she  would  be 
happier  with  another  type  of  man.  There  was 
absolutely  no  likeness,  no  sympathy  between 
them,  no  common  interest.  Often  enough 
she  seemed  distinctly  happier  when  other  men 
were  present.  He  intimated  his  convictions  to 
Selbitz,  who  submitted  them  to  his  wife,  who 
with  her  inherent  tendency  to  control,  scolded 
little  M61anie  into  shape,  whipped  her,  so  to 
speak,  into  docility  and  made,  via  Hermann, 
a  splendid  appeal  to  Arenberg's  chivalrous- 
ness,  honor  and  delicacy  —  qualities  which  he 
unfortunately  possessed  in  quixotic  supera- 
bundance. When  a  man  of  his  standing  drew 
back,  it  hurt  the  girl  for  life.  This  may  be  a 
debatable  question  for  impartial  men.  "  For 


The  Garden  of  Eden  415 

life "  is  large  measurement.  But  when  an 
honest  young  fellow  of  two-and-twenty  is  guilt- 
ily aware  that  he  has  kissed  a  child  of  seven- 
teen wildly  and  innumerable  times  in  a  dark 
wood  and  elsewhere,  if  an  older  man  solemnly 
invokes  such  tremendous  ancestral  apparitions 
as  knightliness  and  generous  protection  to  the 
feebler  sex,  the  boy  is  apt  to  succumb.  Aren- 
berg  was  very  miserable.  He  knew  too  that 
Melanie  would  be  happier  with  another  type 
of  man,  —  the  gayest  sort  of  lieutenant. 
Her  lightness  appalled  him  even  more  than 
her  tempers.  But  Selbitz  encouraged  him,  in- 
sisted little  differences  occurred  between  all 
lovers ;  Orla  saw  that  rich  opportunities  never 
failed  ;  Melanie  was  pretty,  had  bright  moods, 
and  was  the  only  woman  he  had  ardently 
kissed :  he  was  procrastinating,  visionary,  in- 
dulgent, and  he  married  her. 

There  she  lay  in  painful  snatches  of  fevered 
sleep.  He  sat  by  the  shaded  light,  and,  dead 
tired,  regulated  the  atomizer.  The  compresses 
and  medicines  were  in  order.  Her  pulse  was 
rapid,  her  temperature  high,  but  in  the  last 
two  hours,  not  perceptibly  increased.  Occa- 
sionally he  went  to  glance  at  the  boys. 

He  beheld  another  picture.  A  wedding 
journey.  The  youthful  husband,  in  spite  of 


4i  6  The  Garden  of  Eden 

past  doubts  and  fears,  enamored,  romantic, 
oblivious,  blissful.  A  drive  over  a  noble 
mountain  pass.  Arrival  in  an  hotel  on  a 
height.  Scenery  magnificent.  Sudden  discov- 
ery of  negligence  of  luggage  on  the  part  of  the 
bridegroom.  The  bride  has  no  toilette  for  din- 
ner. Scene  —  tempestuous  attack  —  floods 
of  tears.  A  bit  of  temper  is  no  harm,  say 
some  men  —  but  this  lovelessness,  on  his  wed- 
ding day,  froze  this  man's  soul. 

Arenberg  renewed  the  compresses,  gave 
some  orders  to  the  boys'  nurse,  administered 
the  medicine  and  steadily  directed  the  spray 
of  the  atomizer.  He  pressed  his  hand  upon 
his  heart.  It  was  a  very  ill-regulated  heart 
that  night. 

Other  pictures  advanced  and  retreated.  The 
first  years?  Well,  he  had  loved  no  one  else 
and  never  hated  her.  But  the  appalling  want 
of  sympathy  !  It  was  like  a  marriage  between 
beings  of  two  different  species  —  something 
impossible  —  monstrous.  Still,  they  were 
mated  for  life.  In  spite  of  the  convictions  of 
his  brain,  his  warm  heart  sought  happiness 
with  her,  sought  to  make  her  happy,  sought 
desperately  to  deceive  itself.  The  two  boys 
came.  He  clung  to  his  traditions  of  marriage, 
family,  the  holiness  and  sweet,  conciliatory 


The  Garden  of  Eden  417 

power  of  childhood.  But  as  he  daily  returned, 
worn  out,  from  his  first  grappling  with  the 
grim  foes  of  physical  humanity,  to  sharp  petu- 
lance, chronic  dissatisfaction,  lovelessness  to 
him  and  no  visible  joy  in  the  children,  obsti- 
nate social  ambitions,  he  grew  weary  and,  striv- 
ing no  more,  endured  his  home —  and  devoted 
himself  ever  more  ardently  to  his  professional 
life. 

He  opened  all  the  casements,  let  the  night 
air  blow  for  some  moments  through  the  room 
—  with  difficulty  induced  Melanie  to  swallow 
a  little  nourishing  drink,  turned  her  pillows, 
touched  her  forehead,  her  breast,  her  wrist,  sat 
down  and  regulated  the  fall  of  the  life-giving 
spray.  It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

Another  picture  rose  before  him.  A  dash- 
ing, handsome  lieutenant  —  a  cousin  of  his,  a 
guest  in  his  house,  a  dancer,  a  winner  at 
races  and  baccarat,  a  merry  fellow,  and  no 
scoundrel,  though  over  fond  of  women  —  not 
woman  —  and  under  fond  of  books.  It  was 
compromising  —  the  affair.  Divorce  would 
have  been  attainable.  Arenberg  seriously  con- 
sidered it  —  or  separation.  But  the  young 
children,  the  traditions  of  family.  Besides, 
Melanie  wept,  and  accused  him  of  neglect,  and 
Arenberg  loved  no  one.  He  was  at  heart  a 
27 


4i  8  The  Garden  of  Eden 

sad  and  patient  man  —  tame,  as  he  called  him- 
self. Moreover,  he  recognized  with  immense 
compassion  the  inevitableness  of  things.  He 
had  pondered  much  upon  M&anie's  nature  and 
training.  The  result  of  these  factors  was  cor- 
rect. Logically  and  humanly  she  was  not  to 
blame.  He  was  most  at  fault,  having  married 
this  young  thing  whom  he  knew  to  be  utterly 
unsuited  to  him.  Had  he  been  less  dreamy, 
less  timid,  weak,  and  malleable,  truer  to  his 
convictions,  manly  and  energetic,  this  wretched 
union  would  not  have  taken  place. 

Orla  had  intentionally  flung  into  his  young 
and  yearning  arms  a  kissable  girl.  Was  it  just 
that  a  few  foolish  kisses  should  decide  a  man's 
life?  Baretinsky  thought  otherwise  and  suf- 
fered not  at  all.  But  he  had  an  indulgent,  a 
motherly  companion. 

Suddenly  Melanie  opened  her  eyes,  and  with 
extreme  difficulty  spoke : 

"  Am  I  going  to  die,  Aurel?  " 

"  Oh  no,"  he  replied,  with  his  mild  profes- 
sional smile.  "  You  are  doing  very  well." 

She  saw  him  bending  over  her,  kind,  solicit- 
ous, his  face  impenetrable. 

Again  her  lips  moved. 

"  I  suppose  I  was  rather  hateful,"  she 
whispered/ 


The  Garden  of  Eden  419 

"  May  I  tell  Miss  Randolph  you  were  ill  and 
excited,  and  right  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured. 

Presently  she  reopened  her  eyes  and  mo- 
tioned with  her  hand.  He  leaned  over  her. 
Very  feebly  and  painfully  she  said : 

"  Ask  her  from  me  to  continue  to  be  your 
friend." 

"  That  is  a  kind  thought,  MeUanie,"  he  re- 
turned warmly,  and  recognized  it  as  a  noble 
victory  over  herself  —  whether  it  lasted  or 
not. 

She  drowsed  again. 

No,  he  had  never  hated  this  woman.  She 
was  the  associate  of  his  youth  and  the  mother 
of  his  children.  He  wished  her  well.  He 
could  never  intentionally  cause  her  unneces- 
sary pain.  She  was  not  personally  at  fault, 
that  every  chord  and  fibre  of  their  natures  were 
at  variance.  But  the  miserable,  miserable 
years !  Slowly  they  passed  in  review,  the 
sombre,  comfortless,  lost  years. 

And  the  future,  considered  practically? 
Divorce?  Separation?  But  MeUanie  had  since 
that  time  long  ago  incurred  no  conventional 
reproach  and  would  never  consent  to  what  she 
regarded  as  social  degradation.  The  real  so- 
cial degradation  was  the  life  they  two  led 


420  The  Garden  of  Eden 

together.  But  Monica  —  he  knew  with  abso- 
lute certainty  she  too  would  reject  such  a  step, 
that  the  mere  possibility  would  never  of  itself 
enter  her  thoughts.  Had  all  this  come  years 
ago  —  but  now  —  what  had  he  to  offer?  All 
men  were  dying  men  —  he  rather  more  mori- 
bund than  most. 

But  he  loved  her  immeasurably,  with  the 
strength  of  his  sorrow,  the  strength  of  his 
longing,  the  strength  of  his  unassuaged  man's 
heart.  He  loved  her,  soul  and  body,  body 
and  soul,  undivided  —  and  the  aggregate  of 
human  suffering  would  be,  he  believed,  con- 
siderably less  if  the  heads  in  hieroglyphic 
mitres  had  not  been  troubling  themselves  all 
these  centuries  to  separate  the  inseparable. 
He  probed  his  deepest  heart.  He  found  there 
nothing  to  blush  for,  before  Monica,  his  wife 
or  himself  —  not  even  when  he  considered  all 
contingencies. 

What  had  the  mother  said  whose  dead 
hand  led  him  to  her  child  ?  Keep  her  life  pure, 
keep  her  soul  white.  What  was  pure  ?  What 
was  white?  He  smiled  —  superbly.  As  if 
anything  this  world  could  do  to  her,  anything 
in  the  universe  could  stain  the  purity  of  that 
most  chaste  nature.  Still  — 

He  ministered  to  Me*lanie's  needs  and  re- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  421 

garded  her  and  all  her  life  with  immense  com- 
passion. But  this  was  the  essence  of  his 
solemn  thought : 

"  There  is  no  room  in  the  world  for  my  heart's 
love.  There  ought  to  be  room  for  it.  In 
exactly  this  situation,  there  ought  to  be  a 
solution,  offering  no  harshness  to  this  woman, 
my  wife  only  in  name :  —  no  affront  to  her 
prejudices  or  her  vanity,  entailing  no  sacrifice 
of  her  idols;  a  solution  which  should  harm  no 
hair  of  my  children's  heads,  but  rather  bless 
them  with  more  sunshine ;  a  solution  accept- 
able to  all  three  and  to  the  community  at 
large  —  a  just,  kind,  simple,  and  sane  solution." 
He  divined  it,  saw  it  clearly. 

But  society  would  execrate  it  —  the  society 
he  knew  so  well,  Courts,  the  nobility,  the 
middle  classes,  the  miserable  poor.  And  it 
was  they  —  they  —  whom  his  scheme  would 
shock.  Ah,  the  ineffable  irony  !  To-day  his 
sane  and  simple  solution  would  wound  their 
sensibilities  and  alarm  their  virtue.  One  day, 
after  changes,  growth,  enlightenment,  inevitable 
regeneration,  emancipated  men  and  women 
would  stand  side  by  side  in  purer  atmosphere 
and  on  holier  ground  —  but  he  and  Monica 
and  Melanie  would  have  long  since  passed 
over  into  the  great  silence. 


422  The  Garden  of  Eden 

Monica  returned  home  in  despair  and  cut 
to  the  heart  by  the  trenchant  cruelty  of  that 
scene.  Was  her  creed,  then,  so  unknown,  so 
impossible,  so  preposterous  that  no  other 
woman  could  share  it?  Elizabeth  and  Eleanor, 
yes  —  but  they  were  not  wives.  Was  there  no 
wife  on  earth  capable  of  loving  a  man  per- 
fectly, and  leaving  him  free?  Was  love  but 
ownership  ?  And  Melanie  —  what  was  in  her 
heart  for  Arenberg,  since  she  could  pain  him 
so  sorely !  Why  had  she  come,  sought  Monica 
out,  sanctioned  the  friendship,  invited  her, 
run  after  her,  made  much  of  her,  given  her 
in  every  way  to  understand  she  was  welcome, 
then  turned  in  jealousy  upon  her?  She  was 
so  secure  and  unsuspecting.  It  was  all  in- 
credible. She  comprehended  nothing,  not 
Melanie's  motives,  not  her  angry  attack,  least 
of  all,  her  sentiments  toward  Arenberg. 

Words  were  spoken  not  pleasant  for  a 
woman  to  hear.  They  fell  like  blows.  They 
tingled  now  that  all  was  over.  Monica  re- 
sented them.  But  her  faith  in  Arenberg  was 
her  consolation  and  her  stronghold.  He 
comprehended  all  that  perplexed  her.  He 
would  show  her  the  way.  Suddenly,  from 
the  past,  still  living  but  far  far  receded,  came 
a  memory  of  her  own  weakness:  of  restless- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  423 

ness  at  the  mere  suggestion  that  Keith  took 
pleasure  in  Kitty's  home :  and  Keith  had  little 
joy  —  and  Keith  was  always  noble.  She 
remembered  that  she  had  felt  deprived  of  her 
rights  when  his  letters  ceased  to  come  —  that 
she  had  pleaded,  remonstrated  and  implored. 
In  true  love — yes.  But  true  love  has  no 
rights  except  the  sovereign  right  of  giving. 
She  made  a  solemn  covenant  with  herself 
which  according  to  her  strength  she  kept. 

With  wandering  thoughts  Monica  listened 
to  the  Frau  Professor  at  dinner,  who  said  a 
friend  was  coming  from  Bonn  to  stay  awhile 
with  her  —  Monica  would  like  her.  She  was 
indeed  better  suited  to  Monica  than  to  the 
Frau  Professor,  and  years  younger,  and  poeti- 
cal, while  she,  as  Monica  knew,  was  prose 
itself.  Still  the  friendship  was  a  good  one  and 
had  come  about  in  an  odd  way  which  she  had 
never  mentioned  to  any  one.  Dr.  von  Aren- 
berg,  she  suspected,  was  aware  of  it  —  but  she 
did  not  mind  telling  Monica,  who  had  suddenly 
begun  to  listen. 

They  —  Professor  Erhardt  and  she  —  were 
staying  in  a  little  inn  in  the  Black  Forest, 
where  he  had  been  ordered  one  summer  for  his 
chest.  His  lungs  were  already  very  delicate. 
A  little  widow  with  a  frail  boy  of  five  or  six 


424  The  Garden  of  Eden 

soon  arrived  and  they  were  all  much  together, 
in  the  woods  the  livelong  day. 

Now  the  professor  was  poetical.  That  was 
his  hobby.  And  Monica  knew  what  she  was. 
During  their  engagement  and  the  first  years 
of  their  marriage,  he  had  hardly  missed  the 
poetical  element  in  her,  he  had  been  poetical 
enough  for  both.  But  as  the  years  went  on, 
and  he  discovered  she  cared  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing,  for  his  verses,  knew  nothing  about 
them,  it  was  of  course  rather  depressing  to 
him.  To  go  spouting  your  verses  to  yourself 
all  the  time  can  hardly  be  very  entertaining. 

"  Well,  in  the  Black  Forest,  under  the  pines, 
he  and  the  little  widow  read  poetry,  wrote 
poetry,  lived  poetry,  and  my  husband  was 
blissful.  They  would  have  bored  me  to  death 
if  they  had  not  made  me  terribly  unhappy. 
For  my  husband  and  I  were  a  very  devoted 
loving  couple.  That  I  can  say  with  truth. 
Perhaps  because  we  had  no  children — which 
was  always  a  great  grief  to  me  —  we  were  the 
more  united.  I  know  people  think  otherwise, 
but  I  have  observed  it  is  sometimes  the  fact. 
I  passed  some  very  uncomfortable  days,  took 
my  sewing,  went  off  alone  and  was  miserably 
jealous.  For  I  saw  he  was  very  fond  of  her, 
and  she  was  pretty  and  sweet. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  425 

"  Then  one  day  I  began  to  think  plainly  and 
honestly.  I  said  to  myself:  That  little  woman 
can  never  take  away  what  lies  between  my 
husband  and  me  — •  all  the  years  and  affection 
—  not  in  all  eternity  —  and  if  she  can  give  him 
something  I  cannot,  why  should  she  not,  if  it 
makes  them  both  happier?  So  I  gulped  down 
my  moods,  which  was  no  easy  process  —  and 
sulked  no  more.  When,  early  in  the  winter, 
he  told  me  on  his  death-bed  no  man  ever  had 
a  dearer  wife  and  I  had  never  given  him  an 
hour's  pain,  I  thanked  my  God  that  though  He 
had  not  seen  fit  to  make  me  poetical,  He  had 
given  me  common  sense.  For  what  if  I  had 
meanly  deprived  my  husband  of  his  happiness 
and  must  reproach  myself  after  his  death?  " 

She  wiped  her  eyes  and  Monica  regarded 
her  in  gratitude,  in  wonder  —  as  if  wisdom 
had  proceeded  from  the  mouths  of  babes  and 
sucklings.  Without  the  aid  of  your  philoso- 
phy, this  simple  woman,  led  by  the  loving 
kindness  of  love  to  overthrow  love's  jealousy, 
had  made  a  sacred  truth  her  own. 

One  white  rose  came  the  next  morning,  with 
a  few  words  to  the  effect  that  Monica  was 
good  and  strong  enough  to  quietly  bear  that 
storm  of  unjust  anger  —  and  to  forgive.  Be- 
fore the  deplorable  scene  Melanie  was  already 


426  The  Garden  of  Eden 

ill  and  greatly  excited  by  quite  other  matters. 
Now  she  was  suffering  much.  In  very  gentle 
words  Arenberg  framed  her  message  of  regret 
Merely  because  he  said  as  usual,  "  You  can 
bear  it"  Monica  became  quiet,  through  his 
strength,  not  her  own. 

When — at  last — after  many  days  —  he  came, 
they  stood  holding  yearning  tender  hands  and 
gazed,  speechless,  revealing  all,  into  each 
other's  eyes. 

At  length  Monica  spoke  —  low,  each  word 
a  throb. 

"Shall  I  go  away?  I  will  go,  any  hour,  if 
you  bid  me.  If  I  unwittingly  do  harm  —  hurt 
any  soul  —  if  I  cause  grief —  if  I  take  what  is 
not  mine  —  I  will  leave  you  —  now  or  any  day 
to  come." 

He  pale,  beautiful,  and  firm,  replied : 

"  You  do  no  harm.  You  hurt  no  soul.  You 
cause  no  grief.  You  take  only  that  which  is 
your  own,  which  never  belonged  to  any  one  — 
never  was,  at  all,  until  you  came." 

"  Remember,  I  have  said  it.  I  hold  myself 
ready  to  go,"  and  clinging,  constraining  love, 
like  an  overcharged  atmosphere,  floated  about 
the  man  and  the  woman,  enveloped  and  pene- 
trated them  through  and  through  —  body  and 
soul. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  427 

His  face,  all  strength  and  sweetness,  but 
paler — in  his  eyes  a  yearning  as  across  a 
world,  he  still  holding  her  hands,  answered  : 

"  I  shall  remember.  I  knew  you  would  say 
it.  I  know  you.  But  the  only  reason  why 
you  should  ever  go,  would  be  that  I  were  not 
master  of  the  situation  —  and  I  believe  I  am." 

Whereupon  he  fainted. 

She  thought  his  heart  would  never  beat 
again,  but  it  did  —  this  time. 

Monica  stayed. 

They  walked  those  lovely  hills  together 
many  times.  Late,  late  in  the  night,  in  star- 
light, in  rain,  in  wind  and  storms :  white 
nights  when  the  great  woods  clothed  in  snow 
gleamed  glorious  like  a  mystic  temple  not 
made  with  hands;  dark  dense  nights,  warm 
sweet-breathed,  heavy  with  passion.  They  two, 
on  the  dusky  heights  above  the  blaze  of  the 
town,  the  world  down  in  the  valley ;  they  two 
alone,  above  it  all,  far  from  it  all,  at  peace  as 
if  in  paradise. 

No  thought  of  that  world  made  them  troubled 
or  afraid.  They  were  sure.  They  loved,  with 
neither  bounds  nor  exactions  and  content  with 
what  the  world  would  call  little,  but  which  they 
knew  to  be  life's  supreme  essential  good. 

When  a  fierce  hunger  of  the  heart  seized 


428  The  Garden  of  Eden 

them,  that  great  human  natural  and  right  long- 
ing for  more  —  always  for  more  —  and  therein 
is  the  very  fire  of  life,  —  and  these  two  never 
were  cold  lovers,  be  it  proclaimed,  —  they  re- 
membered with  pity  their  brothers  and  sisters. 
Valiant  priests  and  nuns ;  mothers  and  wives 
mourning  their  beloved  dead;  the  cripples, 
the  bedridden,  the  blind,  the  abject  poor  and 
stunted,  loveless  hearts;  careworn  men  and 
women  cruelly  chained  in  wedlock,  like  con- 
victs in  the  galley,  and  never  by  any  chance 
breathing  that  breath  of  perfect  sympathy  which 
frees  our  fettered  souls.  They  remembered  their 
poor  sisters  in  brothels,  their  hapless  brothers 
the  monarchs,  unfree,  never  hearing  truth; 
their  brothers  in  prison-cells,  their  brothers 
in  asylums ;  and  the  whole  unsatisfied,  insati- 
able desire,  the  unceasing  cry  of  anguish  that 
mounts  from  this  earth  by  day  and  by  night. 
They  remembered  with  tender  awe : 

"  Two  shall  be  born  a  whole  wide  world  apart, 
And  speak  in  different  tongues,  and  have  no  thought 
Each  of  the  other's  being  —  and  no  need  ;  — 
And  these  o'er  unknown  seas,  to  unknown  lands 
Shall  cross,  escaping  wreck,  defying  death, 
And  all  unconsciously  shape  every  act, 
And  bend  each  wandering  step  to  this  one  end  — 
That  one  day  out  of  darkness  they  shall  meet 
And  read  life's  meaning  in  each  other's  eye. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  429 

"  And  two  shall  walk  some  narrow  way  of  life 
So  nearly  side  by  side  that  should  one  turn 
Ever  so  little  space  to  left  or  right 
They  needs  must  stand  acknowledged  face  to  face 
And  yet  with  wistful  eyes  that  never  meet, 
With  groping  hands  that  never  clasp  —  and  lips 
Calling  in  vain  to  ears  that  never  hear 
They  seek  each  other  all  their  weary  days, 
And  die  unsatisfied  —  and  this  is  Fate." 

And  the  two  on  the  heights  deemed  their  lot 
blessed  beyond  desert  or  expectation,  hope  or 
prayer,  and  were  still. 

Yet  he  never  for  her  sake  turned  one  step 
aside  from  his  straight,  hard  path  of  duty.  She 
never  once  called  or  beckoned  or  sought  him. 
They  could  have  obliterated  themselves,  one 
for  the  other.  She  could,  had  this  been  his 
will,  have  found  the  way  for  him  to  a  woman 
dearer  and  sweeter  than  herself,  and  turned 
away,  and  never  seen  his  face  again,  yet 
blessed  him  still.  When  he  would  question 
himself  and  her  if  it  were  right  to  appropriate 
so  great  love  since  he  could  not  shape  for  her 
the  outward  fashion  of  his  life,  and  others, 
good  men  and  true,  could,  her  answer  rang 
sweet  in  his  ears  as  a  glad  peal  of  music  from 
some  larger,  purer  world. 

He  lived  his  patient  life  of  sacrifice,  and 
healed  and  helped  and  comforted  and  blessed 


4jo  The  Garden  of  Eden 

his  fellow-creatures,  often  less  weary  and  less 
ill  than  he.  They  loved  him  well.  Men  and 
women  loved  him,  and  Monica  was  glad  for 
the  women  as  for  the  men  —  for  all  who  found 
joy  and  sustenance  in  his  strong  and  tender 
presence.  Each  time  he  left  her,  some  inner 
voice  warned  she  might  never  look  into  his 
eyes  again,  and  that  thought  made  him  sacred 
beyond  all  words.  Yet  she  could  see  him  go, 
and  their  intercourse  was  mostly  glad  and 
simple,  with  jest  and  gentle  talk  about  every- 
day things. 

She  too  worked  in  many  ways,  and  took  long 
journeys  when  her  duty  required.  "  '  Wander 
forth,'  says  the  Koran,  '  for  God's  earth  is 
rich  and  spacious,' "  he  would  tell  her  cheer- 
fully, though  at  such  times  it  was  to  him  as  if 
his  soul  had  flown  from  him,  and  he  wondered 
that  earth  and  sky  mourned  not  and  that  the 
streets  looked  gay  and  full  and  unconcerned. 
Presently  he  would  chide  his  self-importance, 
and  bid  himself  do  what  each  day  demanded, 
and  —  wait  Thus  they  taught  each  other  to 
look  up  —  to  be  brave  —  to  endure. 

In  a  lonely  hamlet,  on  an  island  in  the  Baltic, 
she  was  working  one  summer.  It  was  a  place 
she  knew  and  loved.  A  village  of  fishermen 
and  pilots,  simple,  clannish,  strong  folk,  with  a 


The  Garden  of  Eden  43 1 

dignity  of  their  own,  and,  when  once  their 
reserve  melted,  kindness  and  faithfulness  for 
the  stranger.  Only  a  few  cottages  and  a 
watch  tower  on  a  narrow  point  of  land  over 
which  all  winds  swept  and  boomed  on  stormy 
nights.  But  there  were  tiny  garden  plots 
where  sweet  old-fashioned  flowers  grew,  and 
rolling  meadows  beyond  the  dunes,  and  a 
beautiful  wood  of  oaks  and  beeches  and  a 
group  of  bold  cliffs,  and  beautiful  fair-haired 
children,  and  the  kindly  serious  folk  —  slow 
men  with  golden  beards  and  kingly  manners, 
who  led  austere,  perilous  lives  and  were  con- 
tent. Their  wives  in  queer  headgear,  modest, 
good  women,  demure  and  docile,  cramped  by 
conventions  as  rigid  as  court  etiquette  and  as 
unaccountable  —  and  there  were  stillness,  soli- 
tude, sunshine,  and  the  sea. 

Monica  rented  a  pilot's  house,  a  tiny  cot- 
tage on  the  beach  below  the  wood,  and  shel- 
tered by  the  great  trees  and  rising  land  behind, 
while  the  surf  at  the  front  could  beat  against 
her  window-panes.  The  long  sands  curved 
off  quietly  to  the  left,  the  cliffs  rose  at  the 
right,  a  glorious  breadth  of  ocean  and  sky 
lay  out  before  her,  and  one  blue  coast  line, 
hazy  and  remote.  Great  merchantmen  from 
distant  lands  passed  far  away  across  her  vision, 


432  The  Garden  of  Eden 

and   sloops  with   tawny   sails,  and   gleaming, 
dipping  fisher  boats. 

It  was  some  weeks  since  she  had  heard 
from  Arenberg.  She  was  not  impatient,  or 
more  uneasy  than  when  they  were  in  the  same 
town  —  only  full  of  longing.  She  worked  and 
thanked  all  gods  for  him,  and  bore  the  separa- 
tion —  for  this  was  part  of  her  covenant.  She 
knew  it  to  be  a  weary  time  for  him,  the  last 
weeks  preceding  his  summer  rest,  and  that 
his  exhaustion  was  extreme.  She  came  away 
reluctantly,  but  had  been  asked  to  prepare 
some  sketches  of  this  island  folk  before  a 
given  date,  and  neither  she  nor  Arenberg  ever 
flinched  before  the  pain  of  necessary  absence 
or  evaded  the  exactions  of  regular  work.  In 
respect  of  dutifulness,  she  had  learned  to  imi- 
tate him,  if  afar  off.  She  knew  from  him  his 
boys  were  happy  in  the  country,  his  wife 
travelling  with  the  Arcos  and  others  in  the 
Tyrol,  and  that,  on  account  of  a  little  matter 
connected  with  a  young  colleague,  he  had 
delayed  for  a  few  days  his  journey  to  some 
baths  where  he  hoped  to  restore  to  his  corpse 
a  respectable  amount  of  vigor  for  the  autumn 
work.  She  smiled  proudly,  knowing  it  was 
some  great  service  for  the  young  colleague. 
Arenberg  was  so  generous  to  young  doctors ; 


The  Garden  of  Eden  433 

was  always  bearing  them  in  his  hands.  After 
this  little  she  heard  no  more,  and  waited,  fin- 
ishing her  sketches,  working  on  a  novel  and 
teaching  fishermen's  children  to  swim. 

This  last  employment  she  undertook  as  an 
imperative  duty.  When  in  mythology  a  triton 
woos  a  mortal  maiden  and  bears  her  away  to 
his  deep-sea  cave  —  that  may  sound  attrac- 
tive. But  the  sobs  of  mothers  and  the  rugged 
grief  of  seafaring  men  when  their  children  are 
brought  home  drowned  —  close  to  the  shore 
—  in  shallow  water — Monica  found  heart- 
breaking. Not  a  man  in  the  place  could 
swim,  no  woman  of  course,  and  no  child. 

Monica  had  known  of  many  quite  useless 
superfluous  disasters  of  this  sort.  Just  re- 
cently, three  girls  were  drowned  —  all  bath- 
ing near  the  shore  in  still  water.  A  young 
child  ventured  a  little  too  far,  and  the  others, 
trying  to  help  her,  were  lost  with  her;  one, 
the  oldest,  a  girl  of  fourteen,  the  pride  of  the 
hamlet.  Monica  proposed  her  scheme  to  the 
village  fathers,  and  it  was  accepted  thankfully 
for  the  boys,  but  declined  for  the  girls,  as 
unfitting.  She  persisted  however,  and  finally 
persuaded  her  intimate  friend  the  Burgo- 
master and  her  other  friends,  Petersen  the 
schoolmaster,  Kamp  the  pilot  and  Thorn  the 
28 


434  The  Garden  of  Eden 

fisherman,  that  there  was  nothing  specially 
womanly  in  drowning  and  by  dint  of  much 
energy  and  some  diplomacy,  began  her  nata- 
torial mission,  correctly  and  scientifically  with 
the  methodical  motions  taught  first  to  a  class 
of  girls  on  the  shore  —  while  the  boys  cooled 
their  impatience  out  of  sight 

She  calmly  told  the  astonished  little  maids 
they  should  teach  their  older  brothers  soon, 
and  doubtless  she  thereby  set  that  wicked  fer- 
ment, the  Emancipation  of  Woman,  bubbling  in 
that  peaceful  isle  where  men  in  the  long  winter 
sewed  and  mended  nets,  and  women  worked 
in  summer  fields,  toil  and  poverty  tolerably 
evenly  divided,  but  otherwise  men  were  lords 
and  lawgivers  and  women  subject  to  them  and 
to  restrictions  and  prejudices,  petty,  deep- 
rooted,  centuries  old,  and  enjoyed  no  preroga- 
tive whatever,  except  that  of  maternity. 

There  were  seventy  children  in  the  village. 
She  saw  them  often  in  the  schoolhouse  where 
a  lame  man,  ex-pilot  and  sailor,  with  large 
eyes  and  a  long  brown  beard,  taught  them 
from  the  age  of  four  to  fourteen,  and  accom- 
panied their  songs  with  his  fiddle.  He  had 
fallen,  off  the  Chinese  coast,  from  the  mast  to 
the  deck  and  thence  into  the  sea,  been  fished 
up  apparently  dead,  lain  months  in  a  hospital, 


The  Garden  of  Eden  435 

finally  with  much  privation  reached  his  island 
home  across  the  world,  a  broken  man ;  gone  to 
Berlin  to  furbish  up  his  three  R's ;  returned  to 
teach  the  children  of  his  village  and  to  de- 
velop his  taste  for  music  and  for  oratory,  for 
he  could  make  a  rousing  speech. 

Monica  watched  him  often,  limping  about 
with  his  fiddle  and  teaching  those  towheads  to 
sing,  and  she  wondered  that  on  that  remote 
island  and  in  that  simplest  of  village-schools, 
all  that  they  sung  was  poetry  and  music  — 
never  a  cheap  and  tawdry  thing.  Their  simple 
and  quaint  songs  breathed  in  pure  tones  joy 
in  nature,  love  of  home  and  fatherland,  and 
faith  in  God. 

About  a  third  of  the  lame  fiddling  ex- 
sailor's  troop  Monica  taught  daily  on  the 
beach,  while  the  smallest,  awestruck,  crowded 
in  the  sand  and  watched  these  innovations. 
She  was  thankful  for  her  queer  task,  thankful 
to  the  shy,  delighted  little  maids,  for  the  atten- 
tion and  energy  they  demanded.  In  spite  of 
secret  covenant,  she  grew  miserably  anxious 
about  Arenberg. 

Her  day's  work  done,  she  was  sitting  in  the 
sand  before  her  door  drying  her  hair  in  the 
sunlight  and  watching  the  slow  waves  creep 
up,  pause  as  in  doubt,  and  ebb.  Always  her 


436  The  Garden  of  Eden 

thought  was  Arenberg.  In  and  out,  through, 
above  and  beneath  all  things  like  the  ether, 
this  thought  was  subtly  paramount.  At  the 
same  time  she  saw  the  languid  waves  and  the 
slow  ships  against  the  horizon,  and  meditated 
vaguely  upon  the  course  of  events  in  her 
novel,  and  recalled  Keith  standing  by  a  rock 
and  with  keen  eyes  looking  seawards.  Like 
Odin  with  his  two  ravens  —  birds  of  destiny  — 
upon  his  shoulders,  she  sat  motionless  by  the 
eternal  sea,  and  sent  the  swift-winged  flight 
of  forethought  and  memory  into  the  realms 
of  the  future  and  the  past.  All  was  still 
and  soft  near  her.  She  heard  no  step,  no 
sound,  only  far  away,  in  the  long  curve  of  the 
shore,  children's  laughter  from  an  old  moored 
boat. 

Suddenly,  noiselessly,  from  behind,  without 
warning,  Arenberg  came  —  stood  —  knelt  — 
fell  into  her  arms,  and  like  a  child  clung  to 
her  silently  and  hid  his  face,  and  touched  her 
cheek,  her  wrist,  •  her  hair,  with  infinitely 
caressing  hand  —  seeking  to  prove  she  was  no 
dream  —  yet  thrilled  and  weak. 

"  Thank  God,  thank  God.  I  feared  I  should 
never  reach  you  before  I  died,"  at  last  he 
murmured,  brokenly. 

She,  hardly  surprised  —  being  always  all  his 


The  Garden  of  Eden  437 

own  —  only  clasped  him  close  and  closer  — 
her  lips  on  his  hair,  and  crooned: 

"  Mein  Her 2!    Mein  liebes,  susses  Herz!" 

For  many  moments  was  no  sound  except 
the  soft  breaking  of  the  waves,  and  the  softer 
breaking  of  the  tenderness  of  two  full  human 
hearts.  But  he  yet  lay  very  still. 

"  Dearest !  "  he  said  at  length,  faintly,  yet 
looked  up  and  smiled  in  her  face.  "  I  am  an 
ill  man,  a  dying  man.  Put  me  away  some- 
where. The  trains  were  slow." 

Three  weeks  he  lay  between  life  and  death 
in  her  camp  bed.  A  country  doctor  from  a 
village  ten  miles  away  rode  over  three  times 
every  week  to  echo  Arenberg's  judgment.  His 
symptoms  evoked  from  him  only  professional 
interest.  He  explained  to  her  coolly  the  exact 
shape,  size,  and  functions  of  the  heart  human, 
what  its  inflammation  meant,  and  how  that 
organ  in  him  looked,  what  radical  changes  it 
had  undergone,  what  she  was  to  expect. 
When  he  felt  his  own  pulse,  noted  his  own 
temperament  and  pain,  prescribed  medicine  and 
treatment,  he  was  as  tranquil  and  correct  as  if 
called  to  inspect  the  swollen  finger  of  a  spoiled 
princess.  But  once  he  looked  at  Monica,  and 
lifted  piteous  arms,  and  lay  upon  her  breast 
and  said: 


438  The  Garden  of  Eden 

"  True  heart,  I  am  sad  because  I  must  go 
into  the  great  darkness  without  you.  With 
you,  hand  in  hand,  how  gladly  would  I  go  !  " 

Helpless,  agonized,  broken  all  at  once,  she 
murmured : 

"  Love,  take  me  with  you.  I  cannot  live 
on  —  without  you." 

But  he,  to  comfort  her,  grew  strong  and 
smiled,  laying  frail  hands  in  benediction  on 
her  sorrowful  head : 

"  Sweetheart,  tired  heart,  you  will  live  on 
and  be  brave  and  glad.  The  time  will  come. 
And  gladness  helps  the  world." 

Often,  prostrate  on  the  sands,  she  stretched 
herself  in  agony,  in  tenderness  greater  than 
her  pain  and  implored  all  unknown  powers, 
all  good,  all  strength,  cried  in  passionate 
prayer :  "  For  him  at  any  cost  —  whatever 
you  may  be  —  for  him  —  whatever  is  good 
for  him — life  or  death  —  even  death  if  best 
for  him." 

So  through  the  nights  the  danger  wore 
along,  while  great  winds  blew  and  waves  broke 
throbbing  on  the  beach  and  sometimes  rain- 
drops pattered  on  the  roof  in  sweet  insistent 
fall,  and  Monica  still  knelt  by  the  narrow  bed 
on  which  her  love  lay  stricken,  yet  slowly,  mir- 
aculously gaining  strength,  against  the  man- 


The  Garden  of  Eden  439 

dates  of  his  own  clear  science.  She,  intense, 
perfect  in  care, — coolly  scanning  all  signs  — 
bating  him  in  tenderness  —  drawing  him  with 
passionate,  yet  ever  abnegating  love  back  from 
the  jaws  of  death,  beheld  life  pause  like  the 
soft  wave,  as  in  doubt,  yet  flow  back  into 
strength. 

"  It  is  the  magic  of  your  breath,  your  touch, 
your  kiss  —  your  sweet,  magnetic,  health-giving 
presence.  Life  flows  from  your  finger  tips," 
sighed  he,  incredulous. 

The  soft  rain  dripped  and  pattered  on  the 
low  roof  above  their  heads  as  he,  after  sweet 
light  sleep,  said  this.  In  all  after  years  the 
music  of  pattering  rain-drops  was  plaintive, 
solemn,  and  sacred  in  her  ears  and  sweet  be- 
yond anything  on  earth  —  except  the  won- 
derful waking  of  birds  in  the  hush  of  early 
morning  —  and  that  symphony  too  she  — 
once  —  heard  with  him. 

Weak,  but  incomparably  blessed,  he  lay  in 
a  hammock  or  among  cushions  on  the  sand, 
and  heard  the  restful  movement  of  the  sea, 
and  she  was  near.  A  few  weeks  he  looked 
with  kindly  eye  upon  that  folk,  and  made  his 
quiet  droll  remarks,  and  told  wise  tales  about 
any  leaf  or  thistle  or  shell  that  his  hand 
chanced  to  touch,  and  was  simpler  than  the 


44-O  The  Garden  of  Eden 

simplest  pilot,  and  those  men  too  were  strangely 
drawn  to  him.  For  all  kinds  and  conditions 
he  had  sympathy — and  winning,  sincere  ways. 
Feeble,  suffering  much,  a  doomed  man,  he 
was  happy  with  a  happiness  surpassing  his 
dearest  dream.  Such  joy  as  their  companion- 
ship may  not  be  measured  with  mere  words 
and  divisions  of  time.  In  any  hour  they  knew 
a  lifetime,  a  world  of  loveliness. 

It  was  long  before  Monica  knew  what  di- 
rectly beyond  the  rest  had  caused  his  illness. 
Joining  fragments  she  perceived  the  whole. 
He,  worn  out,  with  as  he  said  the  mentality 
and  physique  of  an  aged  cab  horse,  finally  set 
forth  on  his  vacation  journey.  At  a  station  he 
happened  to  hear  of  cholera  in  a  village  near 
by.  They  said  it  was  bad  and  the  necessary 
medical  attendance  not  yet  there.  According 
to  Arenberg,  he  ran  down  from  mere  profes- 
sional curiosity;  besides,  he  had  had  earlier 
experience  in  a  cholera  epidemic. 

The  village  was  a  god-forsaken  place,  be- 
yond the  railway.  The  contagion  came 
straight  down  the  little  river  from  a  place 
above.  There  was  much  to  do.  Everybody 
succumbed.  The  village  doctor  ran,  parents 
left  their  children,  two  Sisters  of  Mercy  were 
attacked.  Through  some  unaccountable  delay 


The  Garden  of  Eden  441 

of  the  government,  help  came  slowly.  The 
fact  was,  for  some  days  he  and  a  Catholic  priest 
had  almost  the  whole  work,  nurse,  doctor  and 
undertaker  indeed.  The  priest  was  a  capital 
fellow.  Finally  some  nurses  and  a  couple  of 
doctors  arrived,  young  fellows.  Arenberg 
stayed  merely  long  enough  to  run  them  into 
the  grooves  —  about  ten  days  in  all.  Then 
his  heart,  a  poor  machine  at  best,  after  re- 
peated warning  signals,  gave  out.  The  symp- 
toms were  distinct.  He  might  have  remained 
at  a  country  inn  or  tried  to  go  back  to  his 
home,  or  to  the  baths  to  die  alone.  He  turned 
to  Monica.  The  trains  had  no  wings,  and  the 
pain  was  rather  bad.  He  did  not  want  to  lie 
by  like  a  lost  hat-box  in  a  way-station.  It 
was  all  rather  awkward  —  the  connections  and 
boats  —  but  he  came  like  a  bird  to  its  nest. 
Only  not  die  till  he  reach  her !  The  heart 
business  was  precarious  —  but  that  mattered 
little  if  only  his  strength  lasted  till  he  found 
her  —  and  he  willed  that  it  should.  So,  dying, 
he  came  by  unwinged  plodding  trains  and 
stolid  boats,  to  her  —  and  love  and  life  —  a 
little  while. 

Upon  the  sands  he  said  one  day : 

"  Soon  I  must  leave  you,  dear." 

She  did  not  stir. 


The  Garden  of  Eden 


With  gentle  meditative  interest  —  she  felt 
that  he  was  smiling  as  when  he  took  some  sea- 
moss  in  his  hand  —  he  remarked  : 

"  Since  you  have  resurrected  me,  infused  in 
me  your  own  sweet  life,  I  give  myself  —  a  few 
weeks  —  yes,  a  few  weeks  at  the  most  —  if 
things  go  their  best  —  and  upon  that  we  must 
not  count  —  but  that  much  we  may  hope." 

She  neither  spoke  nor  stirred. 

She  knew  he  had  a  gift,  half  science  and 
half  second  sight,  and  often  foretold,  with 
uncanny  accuracy  and  at  a  glance,  the  length 
of  men's  lives  —  robust  strangers  passing  in 
the  streets.  "  He  has  about  six  months,  three 
years,  or  five,"  he  would  say  —  and  it  came 
true. 

Then,  in  the  tenderest  voice  with  which  man 
ever  spoke,  calm,  slow,  and  unearthly  sweet, 
he  murmured  in  her  ear  a  wish,  a  simple  very 
human  wish  —  and  children's  laughter  rang 
out  from  the  old  moored  boat. 

All  within  her  wept  for  that  which  she  must 
forego,  the  simple  very  human  wish  —  which 
strong  yet  dormant  until  waked  by  his  voice  — 
lay  deep  in  her  heart's  desire.  All  within  her 
wept  and  shuddered  as  she  beheld  the  fair 
face  of  that  sweet,  warm  wish  and  saw  it  die 
and  buried  it. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  443 

Lifting  her  head,  she  smiled  at  him  and 
trembled  —  but  still  smiled,  looking  long  into 
his  deep  eyes. 

"  I  have  all  the  children  that  there  are,"  she 
whispered,  and  he  drew  her  close  and  they 
were  silent  and  —  glad. 

In  mighty  and  restful  rhythm  the  long  waves 
washed  the  shore.  Far  off,  great  ships  passed 
slowly  —  from  unseen  port  to  unseen  port. 
Small  white  sails  gleamed  and  red  sails 
glowed,  swift  boats  sped  to  north  and  south, 
and  sea  birds  whirled,  poised,  darted,  hovered, 
plunged  into  the  waves  and  shining  soared 
high  in  the  sunlight,  toward  drifting  clouds. 

"  They  are  not  cruel,  insensible  or  remote, 
the  sea,  and  the  winds  and  stars,"  he  said 
softly,  looking  with  clear  eyes  far  over  the 
sea.  "They  only  obey  the  same  wise  and 
good  necessity  as  we.  And  he  to  whom  they 
reveal  their  meaning,  learns  to  bear  suffering 
quietly  —  and  undismayed.  But  how  small 
it  makes  one ! "  he  murmured,  listening  to 
the  slow  waves. 

She  rose  a  little,  threw  back  her  head, 
breathed  deep,  inhaling  the  breath  of  all 
nature,  and  looked  off  as  if  she  beheld  a 
throbbing  vast  procession  of  worlds,  an  im- 
measurable longing,  birth,  and  growth,  a  vista 


444  The  Garden  of  Eden 

of  infinite  expanse  —  in  unimagined,  everlast- 
ing reaches. 

"  It  makes  me — great" 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  returned,  always  compre- 
hending her  sudden  ways.  "  That  you  too 
belong  to  it !  " 

In  love,  in  silence  —  together  close  —  like 
one  thought,  one  heart  beat  —  they  contem- 
plated the  eternal  ebb  and  flow  of  things  and 
were  at  peace. 

A  little  while  they  had  together,  and  that 
is  all  the  time  there  is  in  the  longest  life  upon 
this  beautiful,  sad,  glad  earth  —  a  little  while. 


Dionysius  the  Weaver's 
Heart's  Dearest 

BY 

BLANCHE   WILLIS    HOWARD 

(MME.   VON   TEUFFEL) 

I2mo.     .     .     .     $1.50 


(Opinions  of  tljc 

WE  turn  eagerly  from  the  charming  cover  of 
Blanche  Willis  Howard's  posthumous  book 
to  its  contents,  confident  on  the  promise 
which  the  author  of  "  Guenn  "  and  "One  Summer" 
held  out  to  her  admirers.  .  .  .  The  peasant's  idyl  is 
flawless,  full  of  quaint  humor,  delicious  atmosphere, 
a  human  sympathy  with  primitive  life  and  its  motives. 
—  Boston  Transcript. 


"Dionysius  the  Weaver's  Heart's  Dearest"  is  health- 
ful to  the  core,  full  of  humor  and  of  brightness  with- 
out the  sense  of  strain  noticeable  in  some  very  clever 
stories.  The  charm  centres  in  the  heroine,  a  child  of 
those  hills  between  the  Danube  and  the  Neckar  known 
as  the  Rough  Alps.  Leaving  her  native  mountains, 
she  brings  their  air  with  her,  and  it  blows  free  and 
bracing  through  the  story.  —  New  York  Times  Satur- 
day Review. 


A  brave  and  tender  and  wholesome  story  is  "  Dio- 
nysius the  Weaver's  Heart's  Dearest."  —  Chicago 
Evening  Post. 


(Djnnions  of  tljc 


It  is  a  simple  story  almost  wholly  concerned  with 
one  person,  the  beloved  daughter  of  the  weaver.  It 
is  the  life  story  of  this  girl,  —  of  her  successful  career, 
her  one  error,  and  her  atonement.  She  has  her  own 
notions  of  right  and  wrong,  and  refuses  to  allow  her 
life  to  be  utterly  wrecked  by  a  single  act  of  wrong- 
doing. Her  independence  and  directness  of  character, 
her  native  scorn  of  the  shams  encouraged  by  conven- 
tional society,  and  her  determination  to  live  her  own 
life  in  accordance  with  her  own  standards  of  conduct 
are  presented  to  the  reader  with  singularly  appealing 
force.  —  The  Dial. 


The  author  of  "One  Summer''  wrote  entertaining 
stories  in  the  past,  but  in  this  book  she  did  something 
more.  "  Dionysius  the  Weaver's  Heart's  Dearest  " 
is  not  only  an  entertaining  book  for  an  idle  hour,  but 
it  is  a  good  character  study  of  a  wilful,  weak  woman. 

—  St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat. 

999 

There  is  a  splendid  character  study  in  this  book, 
developing  gradually  and  logically  as  life  unfolds 
itself  before  the  peasant  girl,  trains  her  in  its  hard 
school,  and  educates  her  to  the  point  where  she  can 
choose  for  herself  the  thorny  path  that  leads  to  victory. 

—  New  York  Mail  and  Express. 


A  quaint  and  moving  tale  it  is,  with  laughter  upon 
some  pages  and  heart-pangs  upon  others,  and  a 
charmingly  capricious  and  wilful  heroine,  who  steadies 
at  the  last  into  a  noble  woman,  despite  the  misfortune 
that  threatened  to  blast  her  life.  Vroni  is  a  fine  as 
well  as  a  winning  creation.  —  Detroit  Free  Press. 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS,    Publishers 
153-157  Fifth  Ave.,  New  York 


University  of  California 

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from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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